** 


^iOS  ANGELA 


by 
JOHN   ADDINGTON    SYMONDS 

AUTHOR  OF 

"INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  STUDY  CF  DANTE" 

"STUDIES    OF   THE    GREEK    POETS" 

"  RENAISSANCE  IN  ITALY"  ETC. 


Englisb  flDen  of  Xetters 

EDITED  BY 

JOHN   MORLEY 


HARPER   £r  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW     YORK     AND     LONDON 

1902 


57292 


\ 


College 
Library 

PR 
5   *r3 
S  °(  $ 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  L 

PAGK 

BIRTH  AM>  CHILDHOOD     ........        1 

CHAPTER  IL 
ETON  AND  OXFORD 12 

CHAPTER  m. 
LITE  IN  LONDON,  AND  FIRST  MARRIAGE 39 

CHAPTER  IV. 
SECOND  RESIDENCE  IN  LONDON,  AND  SEPARATION  FROM  HARRIET  .      72 

CHAPTER  V. 
Lira  AT  MARLOW,  AND  JOURNEY  TO  ITALY       ....      95 

CHAPTER  VI. 
REBIDENCE  AT  PISA 131 

CHAPTER  VIL 
LAST  DAYS 169 

CHAPTER  VHL 
EPILOGUE  183 


LIST  OF  AUTHOKITIES. 


1.  The  Poetical  and  Prose  Works  of  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley,  edited 
by  Mrs.  SheUey.    Moxon,  1840, 1845.     1  vol. 

2.  The  Poetical  Works,  edited  by  Harry  Buxton  Forman.    Reeves 
and  Turner,  1876-7.    4  vols. 

3.  The  Works  of  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley,  edited  by  W.  M.  RossettL 
Moxon,  1870.     2  vols. 

4.  Hogg's  Life  of  Shelley.     Moxon,  1858.    2  vols. 

5.  Trelawny's  Records  of  Shelley,  Byron,  and  the  Author.     Pick- 
ering,  1878.     2  vols. 

6.  Shelley  Memorials,  edited  by  Lady  Shelley.    Smith  and  Elder. 
1vol. 

7.  Medwin's  Life  of  Shelley.    Newby,  1847.    2  vols. 

8.  Shelley's  Early  Life,  by  D.  F.  McCarthy.     Chatto  and  Windus. 
1  voL 

9.  Leigh  Hunt's  Autobiography.     Smith  and  Elder. 

10.  W.  M.  Rossetti's  Life  of  Shelley,  included  in  the  edition  above 
cited,  No.  3. 

11.  Shelley,  a  Critical  Biography,  by  G.  B.  Smith.     David  Douglas, 
1877. 

12.  Relics  of  Shelley,  edited  by  Richard  Garnett.    Moxon,  1862. 

13.  Peacock's  Articles  on  Shelley  in  Fraser's  Magazine,  1858  and 
1860. 

87 


Till  LIST  OF  AUTHORITIES. 

14.  Shelley  in  Pall  Mall,  bj  R.  Garnett,  In  Jfacmillan'i 
June,  1860. 

15.  Shelley's  Last  Days,  by  R.  Garnett,  in  the  Fortnightly  Review, 
June,  1878. 

16.  Two  Lectures  on  Shelley,  by  W.  H.  Rossetti,  in  the  Unicerritj 
Magazine,  February  and  March,  1878. 


SHELLEY. 

CHAPTER  I. 

BIRTH   AND    CHILDHOOD. 

IT  is  worse  than  useless  to  deplore  the  irremediable;  yet 
no  man,  probably,  has  failed  to  mourn  the  fate  of  mighty 
poets,  whose  dawning  gave  the  promise  of  a  glorious  day, 
but  who  passed  from  earth  while  yet  the  light  that  shone 
in  them  was  crescent.  That  the  world  should  know  Mar- 
lowe and  Giorgione,  Raphael  and  Mozart,  only  by  the  prod- 
ucts of  their  early  manhood,  is  indeed  a  cause  for  lamenta- 
tion, when  we  remember  what  the  long  lives  of  a  Bach  and 
Titian,  a  Michelangelo  and  Goethe,  held  in  reserve  for  their 
maturity  and  age.  It  is  of  no  use  to  persuade  ourselves, 
as  some  have  done,  that  we  possess  the  best  work  of  men 
untimely  slain.  Had  Sophocles  been  cut  off  in  his  prime, 
before  the  composition  of  (Edipus;  had  Handel  never 
merged  the  fame  of  his  forgotten  operas  in  the  immortal 
music  of  his  oratorios ;  had  Milton  been  known  only  by 
the  poems  of  his  youth,  we  might  with  equal  plausibility 
have  laid  that  flattering  unction  to  our  heart.  And  yet 
how  shallow  would  have  been  our  optimism,  how  falla- 
cious our  attempt  at  consolation.  There  is  no  denying 
1* 


1  SHELLEY.  [CHAT. 

the  fact  that  when  a  young  Marccllus  is  shown  by  fate 
for  one  brief  moment,  and  withdrawn  before  his  spring- 
time has  brought  forth  the  fruits  of  summer,  we  must  bow 
in  silence  to  the  law  of  waste  that  rules  inscrutably  in 
"nature. 

Such  reflections  are  forced  upon  us  by  the  lives  of  three 
great  English  poets  of  this  century.  Byron  died  when  he 
was  thirty-six,  Keats  when  he  was  twenty-five,  and  Shelley 
when  he  was  on  the  point  of  completing  his  thirtieth  year. 
Of  the  three,  Keats  enjoyed  the  briefest  space  for  the  de- 
velopment of  his  extraordinary  powers.  His  achievement, 
perfect  as  it  is  in  some  poetic  qualities,  remains  so  imma- 
ture and  incomplete  that  no  conjecture  can  be  hazarded 
about  his  future.  Byron  lived  longer,  and  produced  more 
than  his  brother  poets.  Yet  he  was  extinguished  when 
his  genius  was  still  ascendant,  when  his  "swift  and  fair 
creations"  were  issuing  like  worlds  from  an  archangel's 
hands.  In  his  case  we  have  perhaps  only  to  deplore  the 
loss  of  masterpieces  that  might  have  equalled,  but  could 
scarcely  have  surpassed,  what  we  possess.  Shelley's  early 
death  is  more  to  be  regretted.  Unlike  Keats  and  Byron, 
he  died  by  a  mere  accident.  His  faculties  were  far  more 
complex,  and  his  aims  were  more  ambitious  than  theirs. 
He  therefore  needed  length  of  years  for  their  co-ordina- 
tion ;  and  if  a  fuller  life  had  been  allotted  him,  we  have 
the  certainty  that  from  the  discords  of  his  youth  he  would 
have  wrought  a  clear  and  lucid  harmony. 

These  sentences  form  a  somewhat  gloomy  prelude  to  a 
biography.  Yet  the  student  of  Shelley's  life,  the  sincere 
admirer  of  his  genius,  is  almost  forced  to  strike  a  solemn 
key-note  at  the  outset  We  are  not  concerned  with  one 
whose  "  little  world  of  man  "  for  good  or  ill  was  perfected, 
but  with  one  whose  growth  was  interrupted  just  before 


L]  BIRTH  AND  CHILDHOOD.  8 

the  synthesis  of  which  his  powers  were  capable  had  been 
accomplished. 

August  4,  1792,  is  one  of  the  most  memorable  dates 
in  the  history  of  English  literature.  On  this  day  Percy 
Bysshe  Shelley  was  born  at  Field  Place,  near  Horsham,  in 
the  county  of  Sussex.  His  father,  named  Timothy,  was 
the  eldest  son  of  Bysshe  Shelley,  Esquire,  of  Goring  Castle, 
in  the  same  county.  The  Shelley  family  could  boast  of 
great  antiquity  and  considerable  wealth.  Without  reck- 
oning earlier  and  semi-legendary  honours,  it  may  here  be 
recorded  that  it  is  distinguished  in  the  elder  branch  by 
one  baronetcy  dating  from  1611,  and  by  a  second  in  the 
younger  dating  from  1806.  In  the  latter  year  the  poet's 
grandfather  received  this  honour  through  the  influence  of 
his  friend  the  Duke  of  Norfolk.  Mr.  Timothy  Shelley  was 
born  in  the  year  1753,  and  in  1791  he  married  Elizabeth, 
daughter  of  Charles  Pilf old,  Esquire,  a  lady  of  great  beauty, 
and  endowed  with  fair  intellectual  ability,  though  not  of  a 
literary  temperament.  The  first  child  of  this  marriage  was 
the  poet,  named  Bysshe  in  compliment  to  his  grandfather, 
the  then  living  head  of  the  family,  and  Percy  because  of 
some  remote  connexion  with  the  ducal  house  of  North- 
umberland. Four  daughters,  Elizabeth,  Mary,  Hellen,  and 
Margaret,  and  one  son,  John,  who  died  in  the  year  1 866, 
were  the  subsequent  issue  of  Mr.  Timothy  Shelley's  mar- 
riage. In  the  year  1815,  upon  the  death  of  his  father,  he 
succeeded  to  the  baronetcy,  which  passed,  after  his  own 
death,  to  his  grandson,  the  present  Sir  Percy  Florence  Shel- 
ley, as  the  poet's  only  surviving  son. 

Before  quitting,  once  and  for  all,  the  arid  region  of  gen- 
ealogy, it  may  be  worth  mentioning  that  Sir  Bysshe  Shel- 
ley by  his  second  marriage  with  Miss  Elizabeth  Jane  Syd- 
ney Perry,  heiress  of  Penshurst,  became  the  father  of  five 


4  SI1ELLEY.  [CHAP. 

children,  the  eldest  son  of  whom  assumed  the  name  of 
Shelley-Sidney,  received  a  baronetcy,  and  left  a  son,  Philip 
Charles  Sidney,  who  was  created  Lord  De  1'Isle  and  Dud- 
ley. Such  details  are  not  without  a  certain  value,  inas- 
much as  they  prove  that  the  poet,  who  won  for  his  ancient 
and  honourable  house  a  fame  far  more  illustrious  than  ti- 
tles can  confer,  was  sprung  from  a  man  of  no  small  per- 
sonal force  and  worldly  greatness.  Sir  Bysshe  Shelley 
owed  his  position  in  society,  the  wealth  he  accumulated, 
and  the  honours  he  transmitted  to  two  families,  wholly 
and  entirely  to  his  own  exertions.  Though  he  bore  a 
name  already  distinguished  in  the  annals  of  the  English 
landed  gentry,  he  had  to  make  his  own  fortune  under  con- 
ditions of  some  difficulty.  He  was  born  in  North  America, 
and  began  life,  it  is  said,  as  a  quack  doctor.  There  is  also 
a  legend  of  his  having  made  a  first  marriage  with  a  person 
of  obscure  birth  in  America.  Yet  such  was  the  charm  of 
his  address,  the  beauty  of  his  person,  the  dignity  of  his  bear- 
ing, and  the  vigour  of  his  will,  that  he  succeeded  in  winning 
the  hands  and  fortunes  of  two  English  heiresses ;  and,  having 
begun  the  world  with  nothing,  he  left  it  at  the  age  of  sev- 
enty-four, bequeathing  300,OOOZ.  in  the  English  Funds,  to- 
gether with  estates  worth  20,000£  a  year  to  his  descendants. 
Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  was  therefore  born  in  the  purple 
of  the  English  squirearchy;  but  never  assuredly  did  the 
old  tale  of  the  swan  hatched  with  the  hen's  brood  of  duck- 
lings receive  a  more  emphatic  illustration  than  in  this  case. 
Gifted  with  the  untameable  individuality  of  genius,  and 
l>ent  on  piercing  to  the  very  truth  beneath  all  shams  and 
fictions  woven  by  society  and  ancient  usage,  be  was  driven 
by  the  circumstances  of  his  birth  and  his  surroundings  into 
an  exaggerated  warfare  with  the  world's  opinion.  His  too 
tirades  against — 


L]  BIRTH  AND  CHILDHOOD.  A 

The  Queen  of  Slaves, 

The  hood- winked  Angel  of  the  blind  and  dead, 
Custom, — 

owed  much  of  their  asperity  to  the  early  influences 
brought  to  bear  upon  him  by  relatives  who  prized  their 
position  in  society,  their  wealth,  and  the  observance  of 
conventional  decencies,  above  all  other  things. 

Mr.  Timothy  Shelley  was  in  no  sense  of  the  word  a 
bad  man ;  but  he  was  everything  which  the  poet's  father 
ought  not  to  have  been.  As  member  for  the  borough  of 
Shoreham,  he  voted  blindly  with  his  party ;  and  that  par- 
ty looked  to  nothing  beyond  the  interests  of  the  gentry 
and  the  pleasure  of  the  Duke  of  Norfolk.  His  philoso- 
phy was  limited  to  a  superficial  imitation  of  Lord  Ches- 
terfield, whose  style  he  pretended  to  affect  in  his  familiar 
correspondence,  though  his  letters  show  that  he  lacked  the 
rudiments  alike  of  logic  and  of  grammar.  His  religious 
opinions  might  be  summed  up  in  Clough's  epigram : — 

At  church  on  Sunday  to  attend 

Will  serve  to  keep  the  world  your  friend. 

His  morality  in  like  manner  was  purely  conventional, 
as  may  be  gathered  from  his  telling  his  eldest  son  that  he 
would  never  pardon  a  mesalliance,  but  would  provide  for 
as  many  illegitimate  children  as  he  chose  to  have.  For 
the  rest,  he  appears  to  have  been  a  fairly  good  landlord, 
and  a  not  unkind  father,  sociable  and  hospitable,  some- 
what vain  and  occasionally  odd  in  manner,  but  qualified 
for  passing  muster  with  the  country  gentlemen  abound 
him.  In  the  capacity  to  understand  a  nature  which  de- 
viated from  the  ordinary  type  so  remarkably  as  Shelley's, 
he  was  utterly  deficient ;  and  perhaps  we  ought  to  regard 
it  as  his  misfortune  that  fate  made  him  the  father  of  a 


6  SHELLEY.  [CHAP. 

man  who  was  among  the  greatest  portents  of  originality 
and  unconventional ity  that  this  century  has  seen.  To- 
ward an  ordinary  English  youth,  ready  to  sow  his  wild 
oats  at  college,  and  willing  to  settle  at  the  proper  age  and 
take  his  place  upon  the  bench  of  magistrates,  Sir  Timothy 
Shelley  would  have  shown  himself  an  indulgent  father; 
and  it  must  be  conceded  by  the  poet's  biographer  that  if 
I  Percy  Bysshe  had  but  displayed  tact  and  consideration  on 
his  side,  many  of  the  misfortunes  which  signalized  his  re- 
lations to  his  father  would  have  been  avoided.  / 

Shelley  passed  his  childhood  at  Field  Place,  and  when 
he  was  about  six  years  old  began  to  be  taught,  together 
with  his  sisters,  by  Mr.  Edwards,  a  clergyman  who  lived  at 
Warnham.  What  is  recorded  of  these  early  years  we  owe 
to  the  invaluable  communications  of  his  sister  Hellen. 
The  difference  of  age  between  her  and  her  brother  Bysshe 
obliges  us  to  refer  her  recollections  to  a  somewhat  later 
period  —  probably  to  the  holidays  he  spent  away  from 
Sion  House  and  Eton.  Still,  since  they  introduce  us  to 
the  domestic  life  of  his  then  loved  home,  it  may  be  proper 
to  make  quotations  from  them  in  this  place.  Miss  Shel- 
ley tells  us  that  her  brother  "would  frequently  come  to 
the  nursery,  and  was  full  of  a  peculiar  kind  of  pranks. 
One  piece  of  mischief,  for  which  he  was  rebuked,  was  run- 
ning a  stick  through  the  ceiling  of  a  low  passage  to  find 
some  new  chamber,  which  could  be  made  effective  for 
some  flights  of  his  vivid  imagination."  He  was  very 
much  attached  to  his  sisters,  and  used  to  entertain  them 
with  stories,  in  which  "  an  alchemist,  old  and  grey,  with  a 
long  beard,"  who  was  supposed  to  abide  mysteriously  in 
the  garret  of  Field  Place,  played  a  prominent  part.  "An- 
other favourite  theme  was  the  '  Great  Tortoise,'  that  lived 
in  Warnham  Pond ;  and  any  unwonted  noise  was  account- 


i.]  BIRTH  AND  CHILDHOOD.  i 

ed  for  by  the  presence  of  this  great  beast,  which  was  made 
into  the  fanciful  proportions  most  adapted  to  excite  awe 
and  wonder."  To  his  friend  Hogg,  in  after -years,  Shel- 
ley often  spoke  about  another  reptile,  no  mere  creature  of 
myth  or  fable,  the  "Old  Snake,"  who  had  inhabited  the 
gardens  of  Field  Place  for  several  generations.  This  ven- 
erable serpent  was  accidentally  killed  by  the  gardener's 
scythe ;  but  he  lived  long  in  the  poet's  memory,  and  it 
may  reasonably  be  conjectured  that  Shelley's  peculiar 
sympathy  for  snakes  was  due  to  the  dim  recollection  of 
his  childhood's  favourite.  Some  of  the  games  he  invent- 
ed to  please  his  sisters  were  grotesque,  and  some  both  per- 
ilous and  terrifying.  "We  dressed  ourselves  in  strange 
costumes  to  personate  spirits  or  fiends,  and  Bysshe  would 
take  a  fire-stove  and  fill  it  with  some  inflammable  liquid, 
and  carry  it  flaming  into  the  kitchen  and  to  the  back 
door."  Shelley  often  took  his  sisters  for  long  country 
rambles  over  hedge  and  fence,  carrying  them  when  the 
difficulties  of  the  ground  or  their  fatigue  required  it.  At 
this  time  "  his  figure  was  slight  and  beautiful, — his  hands 
were  models,  and  his  feet  are  treading  the  earth  again  in 
one  of  his  race ;  his  eyes  too  have  descended  in  their  wild 
fixed  beauty  to  the  same  person.  As  a  child,  I  have  heard 
that  his  skin  was  like  snow,  and  bright  ringlets  covered 
his  head."  Here  is  a  little  picture  which  brings  the  boy 
vividly  before  our  eyes :  "  Bysshe  ordered  clothes  accord- 
ing to  his  own  fancy  at  Eton,  and  the  beautifully  fitting 
silk  pantaloons,  as  he  stood  as  almost  all  men  and  boys 
do,  with  their  coat-tails  near  the  fire,  excited  my  silent 
though  excessive  admiration." 

When  he  was  ten  years  of  age,  Shelley  went  to  school 
at  Sion  House,  Brentford,  an  academy  kept  by  Dr.  Green- 
law,  and  frequented  by  the  sons  of  London  tradesmen, 


8  SHELLEY.  [ciur. 

who  proved  but  uncongenial  companions  to  his  gentle 
spirit  It  is  fortunate  for  posterity  that  one  of  his  biog- 
raphers, his  second  cousin  Captain  Medwin,  was  his  school- 
fellow at  Sion  House;  for  to  his  recollections  we  owe 
some  details  of  great  value.  Medwin  tells  us  that  Shelley 
learned  the  classic  languages  almost  by  intuition,  while  he 
seemed  to  be  spending  his  time  in  dreaming,  now  watch- 
ing the  clouds  as  they  sailed  across  the  school-room  win- 
dow, and  now  scribbling  sketches  of  fir-trees  and  cedars  in 
memory  of  Field  Place.  At  this  time  he  was  subject  to 
sleep-walking,  and,  if  we  may  credit  this  biographer,  he 
often  lost  himself  in  reveries  not  far  removed  from  trance. 
His  favourite  amusement  was  novel-reading;  and  to  the 
many  "  blue  books  "  from  the  Minerva  press  devoured  by 
him  in  his  boyhood,  we  may  ascribe  the  style  and  tone  of 
his  first  compositions.  For  physical  sports  he  showed  no 
inclination.  "He  passed  among  his  school-fellows  as  a 
strange  and  unsocial  being;  for  when  a  holiday  relieved 
us  from  our  tasks,  and  the  other  boys  were  engaged  in 
such  sports  as  the  narrow  limits  of  our  prison-court  al- 
lowed, Shelley,  who  entered  into  none  of  them,  would  pace 
backwards  and  forwards — I  think  I  see  him  now — along 
the  southern  wall,  indulging  in  various  vague  and  unde- 
fined ideas,  the  chaotic  elements,  if  I  may  say  so,  of  what 
afterwards  produced  so  beautiful  a  world." 

Two  of  Shelley's  most  important  biographical  compo- 
sitions undoubtedly  refer  to  this  period  of  his  boyhood. 
The  first  is  the  passage  in  the  Prelude  to  Laon  and  Cyth- 
na  which  describes  his  suffering  among  the  unsympathetic 
inmates  of  a  school — 

'•    Thoughts  of  great  deeds  were  mine,  dear  Friend,  when  first 
The  clouds  which  wrap  this  world  from  youth  did  pass. 


i.]  BIRTH  AND  CHILDHOOD.  9 

I  do  remember  well  the  hour  which  burst 
My  spirit's  sleep :  a  fresh  May-dawn  it  was, 
When  I  walked  forth  upon  the  glittering  grass, 
And  wept,  I  knew  not  why ;  until  there  rose 
From  the  near  school-room,  voices,  that,  alas  ! 
Were  but  one  echo  from  a  world  of  woes — 
The  harsh  and  grating  strife  of  tyrants  and  of  foes. 

And  then  I  clasped  my  hands  and  looked  around — 
— But  none  was  near  to  mock  my  streaming  eyes, 
Which  poured  their  warm  drops  on  the  sunny  ground- 
So  without  shame  I  spake : — "  I  will  be  wise, 
And  just,  and  free,  and  mild,  if  in  me  lies 
Such  power,  for  I  grow  weary  to  behold 
The  selfish  and  the  strong  still  tyrannize 
Without  reproach  or  check."     I  then  controlled 
My  tears,  my  heart  grew  calm,  and  I  was  meek  and  bold. 

And  from  that  hour  did  I  with  earnest  thought 
Heap  knowledge  from  forbidden  mines  of  lore, 
Yet  nothing  that  my  tyrants  knew  or  taught 
I  cared  to  learn,  but  from  that  secret  store 
Wrought  linked  armour  for  my  soul,  before 
It  might  walk  forth  to  war  among  mankind. 
Thus  power  and  hope  were  strengthened  more  and  more 
Within  me,  till  there  came  upon  my  mind 
A  sense  of  loneliness,  a  thirst  with  which  I  pined. 

The  second  is  a  fragment  on  friendship  preserved  by 
Hogg.  After  defining  that  kind  of  passionate  attachment 
which  often  precedes  love  in  fervent  natures,  he  proceeds : 
"I  remember  forming  an  attachment  of  this  kind  at 
school.  I  cannot  recall  to  my  memory  the  precise  epoch 
at  which  this  took  place;  but  I  imagine  it  must  have 
been  at  the  age  of  eleven  or  twelve.  The  object  of  these 
sentiments  was  a  boy  about  my  own  age,  of  a  character 
eminently  generous,  brave,  and  gentle ;  and  the  elements 
B 


10  SHELLEY. 

p{  human  feeling  seemed  to  have  been,  from  his  birth, 
genially  compounded  within  him.  There  was  a  delicacy 
and  a  simplicity  in  his  manners,  inexpressibly  attractive. 
It  has  never  been  my  fortune  to  meet  with  him  since  my 
school-boy  days ;  but  either  I  confound  my  present  recol- 
lections with  the  delusions  of  past  feelings,  or  he  is  now 
a  source  of  honour  and  utility  to  every  one  around  him. 
The  tones  of  his  voice  were  so  soft  and  winning,  that 
every  word  pierced  into  my  heart;  and  their  pathos  was 
so  deep,  that  in  listening  to  him  the  tears  have  involun- 
tarily gushed  from  my  eyes.  Such  was  the  being  for 
whom  I  first  experienced  the  sacred  sentiments  of  friend- 
ship." How  profound  was  the  impression  made  on  his 
imagination  and  his  feelings  by  this  early  friendship,  may 
again  be  gathered  from  a  passage  in  his  note  upon  the 
antique  group  of  Bacchus  and  Ampclus  at  Florence. 
"  Look,  the  figures  are  walking  with  a  sauntering  and 
idle  pace,  and  talking  to  each  other  as  they  walk,  as  you 
may  have  seen  a  younger  and  an  elder  boy  at  school, 
walking  in  some  grassy  spot  of  the  play -ground  with  that 
tender  friendship  for  each  other  which  the  age  inspires." 

These  extracts  prove  beyond  all  question  that  the  first 
contact  with  the  outer  world  called  into  activity  two  of 
Shelley's  strongest  moral  qualities  — ftiis  hatred  of  tyran- 
ny and  brutal  force  in  any  form,  and  his  profound  senti- 
ment of  friendship. )  \The  admiring  love  of  women,  which 
marked  him  no  less  strongly,  and  which  made  him  second 
only  to  Shakespere  in  the  sympathetic  delineation  of  a 
noble  feminine  ideal,  had  been  already  developed  by  his 
deep  affection  for  his  mother  and  sisters.  It  is  said  that 
he  could  not  receive  a  letter  from  them  without  mani- 
fest joy. 

"  Shelley,"  says  Medwin,  "  was  at  this  time  tall  for  his 


i.]  BIRTH  AND  CHILDHOOD.  H 

age,  slightly  and  delicately  built,  and  rather  narrow-chest- 
ed, with  a  complexion  fair  and  ruddy,  a  face  rather  long 
than  oval.  His  features,  not_regu]arly_liandsome,  were 
set  off  by  a  profusion  of"  silky  brown  hair,  that  curled 
naturally.  The  expression  'of  his  countenance  was  one 
of  exceeding  sweetness  and  innocence.  His  blue  eyes 
were  very  large  and  prominent.  They  were  at  times, 
when  he  was  abstracted,  as  he  often  was  in  contemplation, 
dull,  and  as  it  were,  insensible  to  external  objects ;  at  oth- 
ers they  flashed  with  the  fire  of  intelligence.  His_  voice 
was  soft  and  low,  but  broken  jn  its  t.nn^ — whpn  any- 
ling  much  interested^  him,  harsh  and  immodulated ;  and 
this  peculiarity  he  never  lost.  £He  was  naturally  calm, 
but  when  he  heard  of  or  read  of  some  flagrant  act  of 
:  injustice,  opjicesaiokr-ef -  ernefoyrtiieu  Judged"  the  sharp- 
est marks  of  horror  and  indignation  were  visible  in  his 
countenance.''? 

Such  as  the  child  was,  we  shall  find  the  man  to  have 
remained  unaltered  through  the  short  space  of  life  allow- 
ed him.  Loving,  innocent,  sensitive,  secluded  from  the 
vulgar  concerns  of  his  companions,  strongly  moralized 
after  a  peculiar  and  inborn  type  of  excellence,  drawing 
his  inspirations  from  Nature  and  from  his  own  soul  in 
solitude,  Shelley  passed  across  the  stage  of  this  world, 
attended  by  a  splendid  vision  which  sustained  him  at  a 
perilous  height  above  the  kindly  race  of  men.  The  pen- 
alty of  this  isolation  he  suffered  in  many  painful  episodes. 
The  reward  he  reaped  in  a  measure  of  more  authentic 
prophecy,  and  in  a  nobler  realization  of  his  best  self,  than 
could  be  claimed  by  any  of  his  immediate  contemporaries. 


CHAPTER  IL 

ETON    AND    OXFORD. 

IN  1805  Shelley  went  from  Sion  House  to  Eton.  At  this 
time  Dr.  Keate  was  headmaster,  and  Shelley's  tutor  was 
a  Mr.  Bethel,  "  one  of  the  dullest  men  in  the  establish- 
ment." At  Eton  Shelley  was  not  popular  either  with 
his  teachers  or  his  elder  school-fellows,  although  the  boys 
of  his  own  age  are  said  to  have  adored  him.  "  He  was 
all  passion,"  writes  Mrs.  Shelley ;  "  passionate  in  his  re- 
sistance to  an  injury,  passionate  in  his  love :"  and  this 
vehemence  of  temperament  he  displayed  by  organizing  a 
rebellion  against  fagging,  which  no  doubt  won  for  him 
the  applause  of  his  juniors  and  equals.  It  was  not  to  be 
expected  that  a  lad  intolerant  of  rule  and  disregardful  of 
restriction,  who  neglected  punctuality  in  the  performance 
of  his  exercises,  while  he  spent  his  leisure  in  translating 
half  of  Pliny's  history,  should  win  the  approbation  of 
pedagogues.  At  the  same  time  the  inspired  opponent  of 
the  fagging  system,  the  scorner  of  games  and  muscular 
amusements,  could  not  hope  to  find  much  favour  with 
such  martinets  of  juvenile  convention  as  a  public  school 
is  wont  to  breed.  At  Eton,  as  elsewhere,  Shelley's  un- 
compromising spirit  brought  him  into  inconvenient  con- 
tact with  a  world  of  vulgar  usage,  while  his  lively  fancy 
invested  the  commonplaces  of  reality  with  dark  hues 


n.]  ETON  AND  OXFORD.  18 

borrowed  from  his  own  imagination.  Mrs.  Shelley  says 
of  him,  "  Tamed  by  affection,  but  unconquered  by  blows, 
what  chance  was  there  that  Shelley  should  be  happy  at 
a  public  school  ?"  This  sentence  probably  contains  the 
pith  of  what  he  afterwards  remembered  of  his  own  school 
life,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  a  nature  like  his,  at  once 
loving  and  high-spirited,  had  much  to  suffer.  It  was  a 
mistake,  however,  to  suppose  that  at  Eton  there  were  any 
serious  blows  to  bear,  or  to  assume  that  laws  of  love  which 
might  have  led  a  spirit  so  gentle  as  Shelley's,  were  adapt- 
ed to  the  common  stuff  of  which  the  English  boy  is  form- 
ed. The  latter  mistake  Shelley  made  continually  through- 
out his  youth ;  and  only  the  advance  of  years  tempered 
his  passionate  enthusiasm  into  ajsober  zeal  for  theJia- 
provement  of  mankind  by  rational  m^tho^a,  We  may 
also  trace  at  this  early  epoch  of  his  life  that  untamed  in- 
tellectual ambition  —  that  neglect  of  the  immediate  and 
detailed  for  the  transcendental  and  universal — which  was 
a  marked  characteristic  of  his  genius,  leading  him  to  fly 
at  the  highest  while  he  overleaped  the  facts  of  ordinary 
human  life.  "  From  his  earliest  years,"  says  Mrs.  Shelley, 
"  all  his  amusements  and  occupations  were  of  a  daring, 
and  in  one  sense  of  the  term,  lawless  nature.  He  delight- 
ed to  exert  his  powers,  not  as  a  boy,  but  as  a  man ;  and 
so  with  manly  powers  and  childish  wit,  he  dared  and 
achieved  attempts,,  that  none  of  his  comrades  could  even 
have  conceived.  J^His  understanding  and  the  early  devel- 
opment of  imagination  never  permitted  him  to  mingle  in 
childish  plays ;  and  his  natural  aversion  to  tyranny  pre 
vented  him  from  paying  due  attention  to  his  school  duties. 
But  he  was  always  actively  employed ;  and  although  his 
endeavours  were  prosecuted  with  puerile  precipitancy,  yet 
his  aim  and  thoughts  were  constantly  directed  to  those 


14  SHELLEY,  [our. 

great  objects  which  have  employed  the  thoughts  of  the 
greatest  among  men  ;  and  thongh  his  studies  were  not 
followed  up  according  to  school  discipline,  they  were  not 
the  less  diligently  applied  to."  This  high-soaring  ambi- 
tion was  the  source  both  of  his  weakness  and  his  strength 
in  art,  as  well  as  in  his  commerce  with  the  world  of  men. 
The  boy  who  despised  discipline  and  sought  to  extort  her 
secrets  from  nature  by  magic,  was  destined  to  become  the 
philanthropist  who  dreamed  of  revolutionizing  society  by 
eloquence,  and  the  poet  who  invented  in  Prometheus  Un- 

;  bound  forms  of  grandeur  too  colossal  to  be  animated  with 
dramatic  life. 

A  strong  interest  in  experimental  science  had  been  al- 
ready excited  in  him  at  Sion  House  by  the  exhibition  of 
an  orrery ;  and  this  interest  grew  into  a  passion  at  Eton. 
Experiments  in  chemistry  and  electricity,  of  the  simpler 
and  more  striking  kind,  gave  him  intense  pleasure — the 
more  so  perhaps  because  they  were  forbidden.  On  one 
occasion  he  set  the  trunk  of  an  old  tree  on  fire  with  a  burn- 
ing-glass :  on  another,  while  he  was  amusing  himself  with 
a  blue  flame,  his  tutor  came  into  the  room  and  received  a 
severe  shock  from  a  highly-charged  Leyden  jar.  During 
the  holidays  Shelley  carried  on  the  same  pursuits  at  Field 
Place.  "  His  own  hands  and  clothes,"  says  Miss  Shelley, 
"  were  constantly  stained  and  corroded  with  acids,  and  it 
only  seemed  too  probable  that  some  day  the  house  would 
be  burned  down,  or  some  serious  mischief  happen  to  him- 
self or  others  from  the  explosion  of  combustibles."  This 
taste  for  science  Shelley  long  retained.  If  we  may  trust 
Mr.  Hogg's  memory,  the  first  conversation  which  that 
friend  had  with  him  at  Oxford  consisted  almost  wholly  of 
an  impassioned  monologue  from  Shelley  on  the  revolution 
to  be  wrought  by  science  in  all  realms  of  thought  His 


n.]  ETON  AND  OXFORD.  15 

imagination  was  fascinated  by  the  boundless  vistas  opened 
to  the  student  of  chemistry.  When  he  first  discovered 
that  the  four  elements  were  not  final,  it  gave  him  the 
acutest  pleasure :  and  this  is  highly  characteristic  of  the 
genius  which  was  always  seeking  to  transcend  and  reach 
the  life  of  life  withdrawn  from  ordinary  gaze.  On  the 
other  hand  he  seems  to  have  delighted  in  the  toys  of  sci- 
ence, playing  with  a  solar  microscope,  and  mixing  strangest 
compounds  in  his  crucibles,  without  taking  the  trouble 
to  study  any  of  its  branches  systematically.  In  his  later 
years  he  abandoned  these  pursuits.  But  a  charming  remi- 
niscence of  them  occurs  in  that  most  delightful  of  his  fa- 
miliar poems,  the  Letter  to  Maria  Gisborne. 

While  translating  Pliny  and  dabbling  in  chemistry, 
Shelley  was  not  wholly  neglectful  of  Etonian  studies.  He 
acquired  a  fluent,  if  not  a  correct,  knowledge  of  both 
Greek  and  Latin,  and  astonished  his  contemporaries  by 
the  facility  with  which  he  produced  verses  in  the  latter 
language.  His  powers  of  memory  were  extraordinary, 
and  the  rapidity  with  which  he  read  a  book,  taking  in 
seven  or  eight  lines  at  a  glance,  and  seizing  the  sense 
upon  the  hint  of  leading  words,  was  no  less  astonishing. 
Impatient  speed  and  indifference  to  minutiae  were  indeed 
among  the  cardinal  qualities  of  his  intellect.  To  them 
we  may  trace  not  only  the  swiftness  of  his  imaginative 
flight,  but  also  his  frequent  satisfaction  with  the  some- 
what less  than  perfect  in  artistic  execution. 

That  Shelley  was  not  wholly  friendless  or  unhappy  at 
Eton  may  be  gathered  from  numerous  small  circumstances. 
Hogg  says  that  his  Oxford  rooms  were  full  of  handsome 
leaving  books,  and  that  he  was  frequently  visited  by  old 
Etonian  acquaintances.  We  are  also  told  that  he  spent 

the  40/.  gained  by  his  first  novel,  Zastrozzi,  on  a  farewell 
28 


I«  SHELLEY.  [CHAF. 

supper  to  eight  school -boy  friends.  A  few  lines,  too, 
might  be  quoted  from  his  own  poem,  the  Boat  on  the 
Serchio,  to  prove  that  he  did  not  entertain  a  merely  dis- 
agreeable memory  of  his  school  life.1  fYet  the  general 
experience  of  Eton  must  have  been  painful ;  and  it  is  sad 
to  read  of  this  gentle  and  pure  spirit  being  goaded  by  his 
coarser  comrades  into  fury,  or  coaxed  to  curse  his  father 
and  the  king  for  their  ainusement.7  It  may  be  worth 
mentioning  that  he  was  called  "the  Atheist"  at  Eton; 
and  though  Hogg  explains  this  by  saying  that  "  the  Athe- 
ist" was  an  official  character  among  the  boys,  selected 
from  time  to  time  for  his  defiance  of  authority,  yet  it  is 
not  improbable  that  Shelley's  avowed  opinions  may  even 
then  have  won  for  him  a  title  which  he  proudly  claimed 
in  after-life.  To'  allude  to  his  boyish  incantations  and 
nocturnal  commerce  with  fiends  and  phantoms  would 
scarcely  be  needful,  were  it  not  that  they  seem  to  have 
deeply  tinged  his  imagination.  While  describing  the 
growth  of  his  own  genius  in  the  Hymn  to  Intellectual 
Beauty,  he  makes  the  following  reference  to  circumstances 
which  might  otherwise  be  trivial : — 

While  yet  a  boy,  I  sought  for  ghosts,  and  sped 

Thro'  many  a  listening  chamber,  cave,  and  ruin, 

And  starlight  wood,  with  fearful  steps  pursuing 
Hopes  of  high  talk  with  the  departed  dead. 
I  call'd  on  poisonous  names  with  which  our  youth  is  fed, 

I  was  not  heard,  I  saw  them  not— 

When,  musing  deeply  on  the  lot 
Of  life,  at  that  sweet  time  when  winds  are  wooing 

All  vital  things  that  wake  to  bring 

News  of  birds  and  blossoming, — 

Sudden,  thy  shadow  fell  on  me ; 
I  shrieked,  and  clasped  my  bands  in  ecstasy  I 

1  Forman's  edition,  voL  iv.  p.  116. 


1.]  ETON  AND  OXFORD.  If 

Among  the  Eton  tutors  was  one  whose  name  will  al- 
ways be  revered  by  Shelley's  worshippers;  for  he  alone 
discerned  the  rare  gifts  of  the  strange  and  solitary  boy, 
and  Shelley  loved  him.  Dr.  Lind  was  an  old  man,  a  phy- 
sician, and  a  student  of  chemistry.  Shelley  spent  long 
hours  at  his  house,  conversing  with  him,  and  receiving 
such  instruction  in  philosophy  and  science  as  the  grey- 
haired  scholar  could  impart.  The  affection  which  united 
them  must  have  been  of  no  common  strength  or  quality ; 
for  when  Shelley  lay  ill  of  a  fever  at  Field  Place,  and 
had  conceived  the  probably  ill-founded  notion  that  his 
father  intended  to  place  him  in  a  mad -house,  he  man- 
aged to  convey  a  message  to  his  friend  at  Eton,  on  the 
receipt  of  which  Dr.  Lind  travelled  to  Horsham,  and  bj^ 
his  sympathy  and  skill  restored  the  sick  boy's  confidence./ 
It  may  incidentally  be  pointed  out  that  this  story,  credit- 
ed as  true  by  Lady  Shelley  in  her  Memorials,  sjiows  how 
early  an  estrangement  had  begun  between  the_pp_et  and 
bis  father.  We  look,  moreover,  vainly  for  that  mother's 
influence  which  might  have  been  so  beneficial  to  the  boy 
in  whom  "  love  and  life  were  twins,  born  at  one  birth." 
From  Dr.  Lind  Shelley  not  only  received  encouragement 
to  pursue  his  chemical  studies;  but  he  also  acquired  the^ 
habit  of  corresponding  with  persons  unknown  to  him, 
whose  opinions  he  might  be  anxious  to  discover  or  dis- 
pute. This  habit,  as  we  shall  see  in  the  sequel,  deter- 
mined Shelley's  fate  on  two  important  occasions  of  his 
life.  In  return  for  the  help  extended  to  him  at  Eton, 
Shelley  conferred  undying  fame  on  Dr.  Lind  ;  the  char- 
acters of  Zonaras  in  Prince  Athanase,  and  of  the  hermit 
in  Laon  and  Cythna,  are  portraits  painted  by  the  poet  of 
his  boyhood's  friend. 

The  months  which  elapsed  between  Eton  and  Oxford 
2 


18  SHELLEY.  [CHAP. 

were  an  important  period  in  Shelley's  life.  At  this  timo 
a  boyish  liking  for  his  cousin,  Harriet  Grove,  ripened  into 
real  attachment ;  and  though  there  was  perhaps  no  for* 
mal  engagement  between  them,  the  parents  on  both  sides 
looked  with  approval  on  their  love.  What  it  concerns  us 
to  know  about  this  early  passion,  is  given  in  a  letter  from 
a  brother  of  Miss  Grove.  "  Bysshe  was  at  that  time  (just 
after  leaving  Eton)  more  attached  to  my  sister  Harriet 
than  I  can  express,  and  I  recollect  well  the  moonlight 
walks  we  four  had  at  Strode  and  also  at  St.  Irving's ;  that, 
I  think,  was  the  name  of  the  place,  then  the  Duke  of  Nor- 
folk's, at  Horsham."  For  some  time  after  the  date  men- 
tioned in  this  letter,  Shelley  and  Miss  Grove  kept  up  an 
active  correspondence;  but  the  views  he  expressed  on 
speculative  subjects  soon  began  to  alarm  her.  She  con- 
sulted her  mother  and  her  father,  and  the  engagement  was 
broken  off.  The  final  separation  does  not  seem  to  havo 
taken  place  until  the  date  of  Shelley's  expulsion  from 
Oxford ;  and  not  the  least  cruel  of  the  pangs  he  had  to 
suffer  at  that  period,  was  the  loss  of  one  to  whom  he  had 
given  his  whole  heart  unreservedly.  The  memory  of  Miss 
Grove  long  continued  to  haunt  his  imagination,  nor  is 
there  much  doubt  that  his  first  unhappy  marriage  was 
contracted  while  the  wound  remained  unhealed.  The 
name  of  Harriet  Westbrook  and  something  in  her  face 
reminded  him  of  Harriet  Grove ;  it  is  even  still  uncertain 
to  which  Harriet  the  dedication  of  Queen  Mab  is  ad- 
dressed.1 

In  his  childhood  Shelley  scribbled  verses  with  fluency 

by  no  means  unusual  in  the  case  of  forward  boys ;  and  we 

have  seen  that  at  Sion  House  he  greedily  devoured  the 

sentimental  novels  of  the  day.     His  favourite  poets  at  the 

1  See  Medwin,  vol.  L  p.  68. 


it]  ETON  AND  OXFORD.  19 

time  of  which  I  am  now  writing,  were  Monk  Lewis  and 
Southey ;  his  favourite  books  in  prose  were  romances  by 
Mrs.  Radcliffe  and  Godwin.  He  now  began  to  yearn  for 
fame  and  publicity.  Miss  Shelley  speaks  of  a  play  written 
by  her  brother  and  her  sister  Elizabeth,  which  was  sent  to 
Matthews  the  comedian,  and  courteously  returned  as  unfit 
for  acting.  She  also  mentions  a  little  volume  of  her  own 
verses,  which  the  boy  had  printed  with  the  tell-tale  name 
of  "H— 11— n  Sh— 11— y"  on  the  title-page.  Medwin 
gives  a  long  account  of  a  poem  on  the  story  of  the  Wan- 
dering Jew,  composed  by  him  in  concert  with  Shelley 
during  the  winter  of  1809 — 1810.  They  sent  the  man- 
uscript to  Thomas  Campbell,  who  returned  it  with  the 
observation  that  it  contained  but  two  good  lines : — 

It  seemed  as  if  an  angel's  sigh 

Had  breathed  the  plaintive  symphony. 

Undeterred  by  this  adverse  criticism,  Shelley  subsequent- 
ly offered  The  Wandering  Jew  to  two  publishers,  Messrs. 
Ballantyne  and  Co.  of  Edinburgh,  and  Mr.  Stockdale  of 
Pall  Mall ;  but  it  remained  in  MS.  at  Edinburgh  till  1831, 
when  a  portion  was  printed  in  Fraser>s  Magazine. 

Just  before  leaving  Eton  he  finished  his  novel  of 
Zastrozzi,  which  some  critics  trace  to  its  source  in  Zofloya 
the  Moor,  perused  by  him  at  Sion  House.  The  most  as- 
tonishing fact  about  this  incoherent  medley  of  mad  senti- 
ment is  that  it  served  to  furnish  forth  the  407.  Eton  sup- 
per already  spoken  of,  that  it  was  duly  ushered  into  the 
world  of  letters  by  Messrs.  Wilkie  and  Robinson  on  the 
5th  of  June,  1810,  and  that  it  was  seriously  reviewed. 
The  dates  of  Shelley's  publications  now  come  fast  and  fre- 
quent. In  the  late  summer  of  1810  he  introduced  him- 
self to  Mr.  J.  J.  Stockdale,  the  then  fashionable  publisher 


80  SUELLEY.  [CHAP. 

of  poems  and  romances,  at  his  house  of  business  in  Pall 
Mall.  With  characteristic  impetuosity  the  young  author 
implored  assistance  in  a  difficulty.  lie  had  commissioned 
a  printer  in  Eorsham  to  strike  off  the  astounding  num- 
ber of  1480  copies  of  a  volume  of  poems ;  and  he  had  no 
money  to  pay  the  printer's  bill.  Would  Stockdale  help 
him  out  of  this  dilemma,  by  taking  up  the  quires  and  duly 
ushering  the  book  into  the  world?  Throughout  his  life 
Shelley  exercised  a  wonderful  fascination  over  the  people 
with  whom  he  came  in  contact,  and  almost  always  won 
his  way  with  them  as  much  by  personal  charm  as  by  de- 
termined and  impassioned  will.  Accordingly  on  this  oc- 
casion Stockdale  proved  accommodating.  The  Horsham 
printer  was  somehow  satisfied ;  and  on  the  17th  of  Septem- 
ber, 1810,  the  little  book  came  out  with  the  title  of  Original 
Poetry,  by  Victor  and  Cazire.  This  volume  has  disappear- 
ed ;  and  much  fruitless  conjecture  has  been  expended  upon 
the  question  of  Shelley's  collaborator  in  his  juvenile  at- 
tempt. Cazire  stands  for  some  one ;  probably  it  is  meant 
to  represent  a  woman's  name,  and  that  woman  may  have 
been  either  Elizabeth  Shelley  or  Harriet  Grove.  The  Orig- 
inal Poetry  had  only  been  launched  a  week,  when  Stock- 
dale  discovered  on  a  closer  inspection  of  the  book  that  it 
contained  some  verses  well  known  to  the  world  as  the  pro- 
duction of  M.  G.  Lewis.  He  immediately  communicated 
with  Shelley,  and  the  whole  edition  was  suppressed — not, 
however,  before  about  one  hundred  copies  had  passed  into 
circulation.  To  which  of  the  collaborators  this  daring  act 
of  petty  larceny  was  due,  we  know  not ;  but  we  may  be 
sure  that  Shelley  satisfied  Stockdale  on  the  point  of  pira- 
cy, since  the  publisher  saw  no  reason  to  break  with  him. 
On  the  14th  of  November  in  the  same  year  he  issued 
Shelley's  second  novel  from  his  press,  and  entered  into 


u.]  ETON  AND  OXFORD.  21 

negotiations  with  him  for  the  publication  of  more  poetry. 
The  new  romance  was  named  St.  Irvyne,  or  the  RosicrU' 
dan.  This  tale,  no  less  unreadable  than  Zastrozzi,  and 
even  more  chaotic  in  its  plan,  contained  a  good  deal  of 
poetry,  which  has  been  incorporated  in  the  most  recent 
editions  of  Shelley's  works.  A  certain  interest  attaches 
to  it  as  the  first  known  link  between  Shelley  and  William 
Godwin,  for  it  was  composed  under  the  influence  of  the 
latter's  novel,  St.  Leon.  The  title,  moreover,  carries  us 
back  to  those  moonlight  walks  with  Harriet  Grove  alluded 
to  above.  Shelley's  earliest  attempts  in  literature  have  but 
little  value  for  the  student  of  poetry,  except  in  so  far  as 
they  illustrate  the  psychology  of  genius  and  its  wayward 
growth.  Their  intrinsic  merit  is  almost  less  than  nothing, 
and  no  one  could  predict  from  their  perusal  the  course 
which  the  future  poet  of  The  Cenci  and  Epipsychidion 
was  to  take.  It  might  indeed  be  argued  that  the  defects 
of  his  great  qualities,  the  over-ideality,  the  haste,  the  inco- 
herence, and  the  want  of  grasp  on  narrative,  are  glaringly 
apparent  in  these  early  works.  But  while  this  is  true, 
the  qualities  themselves  are  absent.  A  cautious  critic  will 
only  find  food  in  Zastrozzi  and  St.  Irvyne  for  wondering 
how  such  flowers  and  fruits  of  genius  could  have  lain  con- 
cealed within  a  germ  apparently  so  barren.  There  is  even 
less  of  the  real  Shelley  discernible  in  these  productions, 
than  of  the  real  Byron  in  the  Hours  of  Idleness. 

In  the  Michaelmas  Term  of  1810  Shelley  was  matricu- 
lated as  a  Commoner  of  University  College,  Oxford ;  and 
very  soon  after  his  arrival  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  a 
man  who  was  destined  to  play  a  prominent  part  in  his 
subsequent  history,  and  to  bequeath  to  posterity  the  most 
brilliant,  if  not  in  all  respects  the  most  trustworthy,  record 
of  his  marvellous  youth.  Thomas  Jefferson  Hogg  was 


22  SHELLEY.  [CHAT. 

unlike  Shelley  in  temperament  and  tastes.  His  feet  were 
always  planted  on  the  earth,  while  Shelley  flew  aloft  to 
heaven  with  singing  robes  around  him,  or  the  mantle  of 
the  prophet  on  his  shoulders.1  Hogg  had  much  of  tho 
cynic  in  his  nature ;  he  was  a  shrewd  man  of  the  world, 
and  a  caustic  humorist.  Positive  and  practical,  he  choso 
the  beaten  path  of  life,  rose  to  eminence  as  a  lawyer,  and 
cherished  the  Church  and  State  opinions  of  a  staunch 
Tory.  Yet,  though  he  differed  so  essentially  from  the 
divine  poet,  he  understood  the  greatness  of  Shelley  at  a 
glance,  and  preserved  for  us  a  record  of  his  friend's  early 
days,  which  is  incomparable  for  the  vividness  of  its  por- 
traiture. The  pages  which  narrate  Shelley's  course  of  life 
at  Oxford  have  all  the  charm  of  a  romance.  No  novel  in- 
deed is  half  so  delightful  as  that  picture,  at  once  affection- 
ate and  satirical,  tender  and  humorous,  extravagant  and 
delicately  shaded,  of  the  student  life  enjoyed  together  for 
a  few  short  months  by  the  inseparable  friends.  To  make 
extracts  from  a  masterpiece  of  such  consummate  work- 
manship is  almost  painful.  Future  biographers  of  Shelley, 
writing  on  a  scale  adequate  to  the  greatness  of  their  sub- 
ject, will  be  content  to  lay  their  pens  down  for  a  season 
at  this  point,  and  let  Hogg  tell  the  tale  in  his  own  way- 
ward but  inimitable  fashion.  I  must  confine  myself  to  a 
few  quotations  and  a  barren  abstract,  referring  my  readers 
to  the  ever-memorable  pages  48 — 286  of  Hogg's  first  vol- 
ume, for  the  life  that  cannot  be  transferred  to  these. 
"  At  the  commencement  of  Michaelmas  term,"  says  this 

1  He  told  Trelawny  that  he  had  been  attracted  to  Shelley  simply 
by  hia  "  rare  talents  as  a  scholar ;"  and  Trelawny  has  recorded  his 
opinion  that  Hogg's  portrait  of  their  friend  was  faithful,  in  spite  of 
a  total  want  of  sympathy  with  his  poetic  genius.  This  testimony  la 
extremely  valuable. 


n.J  ETON  AND  OXFORD.  23 

biographer,  "  that  is,  at  the  end  of  October,  in  the  year 
1810,  I  happened  one  day  to  sit  next  to  a  freshman  at 
dinner;  it  was  his  first  appearance  in  hall.  His  figure 
was  slight,  and  his  aspect  remarkably  youthful,  even  at 
our  table,  where  all  were  very  young.  He  seemed  thought- 
ful and  absent.  He  ate  little,  and  had  no  acquaintance 
with  any  one."  The  two  young  men  began  a  conversa- 
tion, which  turned  upon  the  respective  merits  of  German 
and  Italian  poetry,  a  subject  they  neither  of  them  knew 
anything  about.  After  dinner  it  was  continued  in  Hogg's 
rooms,  where  Shelley  soon  led  the  talk  to  his  favourite 
topic  of  science.  "As  I  felt,  in  truth,  but  a  slight  inter- 
est in  the  subject  of  his  conversation,  I  had  leisure  to  ex- 
amine, and  I  may  add,  to  admire,  the  appearance  of  my 
very  extraordinary  guest.  It  was  a  sum  of  many  contra- 
dictions. His  figure  was  slight  and  fragile,  and  yet  his 
bones  and  joints  were  large  and  strong.  He  was  tall,  but 
he  stooped  so  much,  that  he  seemed  of  a  low  stature. 
His  clothes  were  expensive,  and  made  according  to  the 
most  approved  mode  of  the  day ;  but  they  were  tumbled, 
rumpled,  unbrushed.  His  gestures  were  abrupt,  and  some- 
times violent,  occasionally  even  awkward,  yet  more  fre- 
quently gentle  and  graceful.  His  complexion  was  delicate 
and  almost  feminine,  of  the  purest  red  and  white ;  yet  he 
was  tanned  and  freckled  by  exposure  to  the  sun,  having 
passed  the  autumn,  as  he  said,  in  shooting.  His  features, 
his  whole  face,  and  particularly  his  head,  were,  in  fact,  un- 
usually small ;  yet  the  last  appeared  of  a  remarkable  bulk, 
for  his  hair  was  long  and  bushy,  and  in  fits  of  absence,  and 
in  the  agonies  (if  I  may  use  the  word)  of  anxious  thought, 
he  often  rubbed  it  fiercely  with  his  hands,  or  passed  his 
fingers  quickly  through  his  locks  unconsciously,  so  that  it 
'«ras  singularly  wild  and  rough.  In  times  when  it  was  the 


*4  SHELLEY. 

mode  to  imitate  stage-coachmen  as  closely  as  possible  in 
costume,  and  when  the  hair  was  invariably  cropped,  like 
that  of  our  soldiers,  this  eccentricity  was  very  striking. 
His  features  were  not  symmetrical  (the  mouth,  perhaps, 
excepted),  yet  was  the  effect  of  the  whole  extremely  pow- 
erful. They  breathed  an  animation,  a  fire,  an  enthusiasm, 
a  vivid  and  preternatural  intelligence,  that  I  never  met 
with  in  any  other  countenance.  Nor  was  the  moral  ex- 
pression less  beautiful  than  the  intellectual ;  for  there  was 
a  softness,  a  delicacy,  a  gentleness,  and  especially  (though 
this  will  surprise  many)  that  air  of  profound  religious 
veneration,  that  characterizes  the  best  works,  and  chiefly 
the  frescoes  (and  into  these  they  infused  their  whole 
souls),  of  the  great  masters  of  Florence  and  of  Rome.  I 
recognized  the  very  peculiar  expression  in  these  wonderful 
productions  long  afterwards,  and  with  a  satisfaction  min- 
gled with  much  sorrow,  for  it  was  after  the  decease  of  him 
in  whose  countenance  I  had  first  observed  it" 

In  another  place  Hogg  gives  some  details  which  com- 
plete the  impression  of  Shelley's  personal  appearance,  and 
which  are  fully  corroborated  by  Trelawny's  recollections 
of  a  later  date.  "  There  were  many  striking  contrasts  in 
the  character  and  behaviour  of  Shelley,  and  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  was  a  mixture,  or  alternation,  of  awk- 
wardness with  agility — of  the  clumsy  with  the  graceful. 
He  would  stumble  in  stepping  across  the  floor  of  a  draw- 
ing-room ;  he  would  trip  himself  up  on  a  smooth-shaven 
grass-plot,  and  he  would  tumble  in  the  most  inconceivable 
manner  in  ascending  the  commodious,  facile,  and  well- 
carpeted  staircase  of  an  elegant  mansion,  so  as  to  bruise 
his  nose  or  his  lip  on  the  upper  steps,  or  to  tread  upon  his 
hands,  and  even  occasionally  to  disturb  the  composure  of 
a  well  -  bred  footman ;  on  the  contrary,  he  would  often 


n.]  ETON  AND  OXFORD.  25 

glide  without  collision  through  a  crowded  assembly,  thread 
with  unerring  dexterity  a  most  intricate  path,  or  securely 
and  rapidly  tread  the  most  arduous  and  uncertain  ways." 

This  word-portrait  corresponds  in  its  main  details  to  the 
descriptions  furnished  by  other  biographers,  who  had  the 
privilege  of  Shelley's  friendship.  His  eyes  were  blue,  un- 
fathomably  dark  and  lustrous.  His  hair  was  brown ;  but 
very  early  in  life  it  became  grey,  while  his  unwrinkled  face 
retained  to  the  last  a  look  of  wonderful  youth.  It  is  ad- 
mitted on  all  sides  that  no  adequate  picture  was  ever  paint- 
ed of  him.  Mhlready  is  reported  to  have  said  that  he  was 
too  beautiful  to  paint.  And  yet,  although  so  singularly 
lovely,  he  owed  less  of  his  charm  to  regularity  of  feature 
or  to  grace  of  movement,  than  to  an  indescribable  personal 
fascination.  One  further  detail  Hogg  pointedly  insists 
upon.  Shelley's  voice  "  was  excruciating ;  it  was  intolera-  \ 
bly  shrill,  harsh,  and  discordant."  This  is  strongly  stated; 
but,  though  the  terms  are  certainly  exaggerated,  I  believe 
that  we  must  trust  this  first  impression  made  on  Shelley's 
friend.  There  is  a  considerable  mass  of  convergent  tes- 
timony to  the  fact  that  Shelley's  voice  was  high  pitched, 
and  that  when  he  became  excited,  he  raised  it  to  a  scream. 
The  epithets  "  shrill,"  "  piercing,"  "  penetrating,"  frequent- 
ly recur  in  the  descriptions  given  of  it.  At  the  same  time 
its  quality  seems  to  have  been  less  dissonant  than  thrilling ; 
there  is  abundance  of  evidence  to  prove  that  he  could  mod- 
ulate it  exquisitely  in  the  reading  of  poetry,  and  its  tone 
proved  no  obstacle  to  the  persuasive  charms  of  his  eloquence 
in  conversation.  Like  all  finely  tempered  natures,  he  vi- 
brated in  harmony  with  the  subjects  of  his  thought.  Ex- 
citement made  his  utterance  shrill  and  sharp.  Deep  feel- 
ing or  the  sense  of  beauty  lowered  its  tone  to  richness; 
but  the  timbre  was  always  acute,  in  sympathy  with  his  ia 
C  g* 


26  SHELLEY.  [CHAJ». 

tense  temperament.  All  was  of  one  piece  in  Shelley's  nat- 
ure. This  peculiar  voice,  varying  from  moment  to  mo- 
ment, and  affecting  different  sensibilities  in  divers  ways, 
corresponds  to  the  high-strung  passion  of  his  life,  his  fine- 
drawn and  ethereal  fancies,  and  the  clear  vibrations  of  his 
palpitating  verse.  Such  a  voice,  far-reaching,  penetrating, 
and  unearthly,  befitted  one  who  lived  in  rarest  ether  on 
the  topmost  heights  of  human  thought 

The  acquaintance  begun  that  October  evening  soon  ri- 
pened into  close  friendship.  Shelley  and  Hogg  from  this 
time  forward  spent  a  large  part  of  their  days  and  nights 
together  in  common  studies,  walks,  and  conversations.  It 
was  their  habit  to  pass  the  morning,  each  in  his  own 
rooms,  absorbed  in  private  reading.  At  one  o'clock  they 
met  and  lunched,  and  then  started  for  long  rambles  in  the 
country.  Shelley  frequently  carried  pistols  with  him  upon 
these  occasions,  and  would  stop  to  fix  his  father's  franks 
upon  convenient  trees  and  shoot  at  them.  The  practice 
of  pistol-shooting,  adopted  so  early  in  his  life,  was  after- 
wards one  of  his  favourite  amusements  in  the  company  of 
Byron.  Hogg  says  that  in  his  use  of  fire-arms  he  was  ex- 
traordinarily careless.  "  How  often  have  I  lamented  that 
Nature,  which  so  rarely  bestows  upon  the  world  a  creature 
endowed  with  such  marvellous  talents,  ungraciously  ren- 
dered the  gift  less  precious  by  implanting  a  fatal  taste  for 
perilous  recreations,  and  a  thoughtlessness  in  the  pursuit 
of  them,  that  often  caused  his  existence  from  one  day  to 
another  to  seem  in  itself  miraculous."  On  their  return 
from  these  excursions  the  two  friends,  neither  of  whom 
cared  for  dining  in  the  College  Hall,  drank  tea  and  supped 
together,  Shelley's  rooms  being  generally  chosen  as  the 
scene  of  their  symposia. 

These  rooms  are  described  as  a  perfect  palace  of  con- 


ii.]  ETON  AND  OXFORD.  11 

fusion  —  chaos  on  chaos  heaped  of  chemical  apparatus, 
books,  electrical  machines,  unfinished  manuscripts,  and  fur< 
niture  worn  into  holes  by  acids.  It  was  perilous  to  use 
the  poet's  drinking-vessels,  less  perchance  a  seven-shilling 
piece  half  dissolved  in  aqua  regia  should  lurk  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  bowl.  Handsome  razors  were  used  to  cut  the 
lids  of  wooden  boxes,  and  valuable  books  served  to  support 
lamps  or  crucibles ;  for  in  his  vehement  precipitation  Shel- 
ley always  laid  violent  hands  on  what  he  found  convenient 
to  the  purpose  of  the  moment.  Here  the  friends  talked 
and  read  until  late  in  the  night.  Their  chief  studies  at 
this  time  were  in  Locke  and  Hume  and  the  French  essay- 
ists. Shelley's  bias  toward  metaphysical  speculation  was 
beginning  to  assert  itself.  He  read  the  School  Logic  with 
avidity,  and  practised  himself  without  intermission  in  dia- 
lectical discussion.  Hogg  observes,  what  is  confirmed  by 
other  testimony,  that  in  reasoning  Shelley  never  lost  sight 
of  the  essential  bearings  of  the  topic  in  dispute,  never  con- 
descended to  personal  or  captious  arguments,  and  was  So- 
cratically  bent  on  following  the  dialogue  wherever  it  might 
lead,  without  regard  for  consequences.  Plato  was  another 
of  their  favourite  authors ;  but  Hogg  expressly  tells  us  that 
they  only  approached  the  divine  philosopher  through  the 
medium  of  translations.  It  was  not  until  a  later  period 
that  Shelley  studied  his  dialogues  in  the  original :  but  the 
substance  of  them,  seen  through  Mdme.  Dacier's  version, 
_.  -acted  powerfully  on  the  poet's  sympathetic  intellect.  Jp  - 
*  fact,  Although  at  this  time  he  had  adopted  the  fintiftlnai^a. 
6T  materialism,  ne  was  at  heart  al}  through  his  life  an 


alist^ "Therefore  the  mixture  of  the  p_oet  and  the^sage  in 
Plato,  fascinated  Elm.""  THIT  doctrine  of  anamnesis,  which 
offers  so  strange  a  vista  to  speculative  reverie,  by  its  sug- 
gestion of  an  earlier  existence  in  which  our  knowledge  was 


16  SHELLEY.  [out, 

acquired,  took  a  strong  hold  upon  his  imagination ;  he 
would  stop  in  the  streets  to  gaze  wistfully  at  babies,  won- 
dering whether  their  newly  imprisoned  souls  were  not  re- 
plete with  the  wisdom  stored  up  in  a  previous  life. 

In  the  acquisition  of  knowledge  he  was  then  as  ever  un- 
relaxing.  "No  student  ever  read  more  assiduously.  He 
was  to  be  found,  book  in  hand,  at  all  hours;  reading  in 
season  and  out  of  season ;  at  table,  in  bed,  and  especially 
during  a  walk ;  not  only  in  the  quiet  country,  and  in  re- 
tired paths ;  not  only  at  Oxford,  in  the  public  walks,  and 
High  Street,  but  in  the  most  crowded  thoroughfares  of 
London.  Nor  was  he  less  absorbed  by  the  volume  that 
was  open  before  him,  in  Cheapsidc,  in  Cranbourne  Alley, 
or  in  Bond  Street,  than  in  a  lonely  lane,  or  a  secluded  li- 
brary. Sometimes  a  vulgar  fellow  would  attempt  to  insult 
or  annoy  the  eccentric  student  in  passing.  Shelley  always 
avoided  the  malignant  interruption  by  stepping  aside  with 
his  vast  and  quiet  agility."  And  again  : — "  I  never  beheld 
eyes  that  devoured  the  pages  more  voraciously  than  his; 
I  am  convinced  that  two-thirds  of  the  period  of  day  and 
night  were  often  employed  in  reading.  It  is  no  exaggera- 
tion to  affirm,  that  out  of  the  twenty-four  hours,  he  fre- 
quently read  sixteen.  At  Oxford,  his  diligence  in  this  re- 
spect was  exemplary,  but  it  greatly  increased  afterwards, 
and  I  sometimes  thought  that  he  carried  it  to  a  pernicious 
excess :  I  am  sure,  at  least,  that  I  was  unable  to  keep  pace 
with  him."  With  Shelley  study  was  a  passion,  and  the 
acquisition  of  knowledge  was  the  entrance  into  a  thrice- 
hallowed  sanctuary.  "  The  irreverent  many  cannot  com- 
prehend the  awe — the  careless  apathetic  worldling  cannot 
imagine  the  enthusiasm — nor  can  the  tongue  that  attempts 
only  to  speak  of  things  visible  to  the  bodily  eye,  express 
the  mighty  emotion  that  inwardly  agitated  him,  when  he 


a.]  ETON  AND  OXFORD.  29 

approached,  for  the  first  time,  a  volume  which  he  believed 
to  be  replete  with  the  recondite  and  mystic  philosophy  of 
antiquity:  his  cheeks  glowed,  his  eyes  became  bright,  his 
whole  frame  trembled,  and  his  entire  attention  was  imme- 
diately swallowed  up  in  the  depths  of  contemplation.  The 
rapid  and  vigorous  conversion  of  his  soul  to  intellect  can 
only  be  compared  with  the  instantaneous  ignition  and 
combustion,  which  dazzle  the  sight,  when  a  bundle  of  dry 
reeds,  or  other  light  inflammable  substance,  is  thrown  upon 
a  fire  already  rich  with  accumulated  heat." 

As  at  Eton,  so  at  Oxford,  Shelley  refused  to  keep  the 
beaten  track  of  prescribed  studies,  or  to  run  in  ordinary 
grooves  of  thought.  The  mere  fact  that  Aristotle  was 
a  duty,  seems  to  have  disgusted  him  with  the  author  of 
the  Organon,  from  whom,  had  his  works  been  prohibited 
to  undergraduates,  he  would  probably  have  been  eager 
to  learn  much.  For  mathematics  and  jurisprudence  he 
evinced  a  marked  distaste.  The  common  business  of  the 
English  Parliament  had  no  attraction  for  him,  and  he  read 
few  newspapers.  While  his  mind  was  keenly  interested 
in  great  political  questions,  he  could  not  endure  the  trivial 
treatment  of  them  in  the  daily  press,  and  cared  far  more 
for  principles  than  for  the  incidents  of  party  warfare. 
Here  again  he  showed  that  impatience  of  detail,  and  that 
audacity  of  self-reliant  genius,  which  were  the  source  of 
both  his  weakness  and  his  strength.  He  used  to  speak 
with  aversion  of  a  Parliamentary  career,  and  told  Hogg 
that  though  this  had  been  suggested  to  him,  as  befitting 
his  position,  by  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  he  could  never  bring 
himself  to  mix  with  the  rabble  of  the  House.  It  is  none 
the  less  true,  however,  that  he  entertained  some  vague  no- 
tion of  eventually  succeeding  to  his  father's  seat. 

Combined  with  his  eager  intellectual  activity,  there  was 


10  SHELLEY.  [CHAP. 

ftomcthing  intermittent  and  fitful  in  the  working  of  his 
mental  faculties.  Hogg,  in  particular,  mentions  one  of  his 
habits  in  a  famous  passage,  which,  since  it  brings  the  two 
friends  vividly  before  us,  may  here  be  quoted.  "  I  was 
enabled  to  continue  my  studies  afterwards  in  the  even- 
ing, in  consequence  of  a  very  remarkable  peculiarity.  My 
young  and  energetic  friend  was  then  overcome  by  extreme 
drowsiness,  which  speedily  and  completely  vanquished 
him;  he  would  sleep  from  two  to  four  hours,  often  so 
soundly  that  his  slumbers  resembled  a  deep  lethargy ;  he 
lay  occasionally  upon  the  sofa,  but  more  commonly  stretch- 
ed upon  the  rug  before  a  large  fire,  like  a  cat ;  and  his  lit- 
tle round  head  was  exposed  to  such  a  fierce  heat,  that  I 
used  to  wonder  how  he  was  able  to  bear  it.  Sometimes 
I  have  interposed  some  shelter,  but  rarely  with  any  perma- 
nent effect ;  for  the  sleeper  usually  contrived  to  turn  him- 
self, and  to  roll  again  into  the  spot  where  the  fire  glowed 
the  brightest.  His  torpor  was  generally  profound,  but  he 
would  sometimes  discourse  incoherently  for  a  long  while 
in  his  sleep.  At  six  he  would  suddenly  compose  himself, 
even  in  the  midst  of  a  most  animated  narrative,  or  of  ear- 
nest discussion ;  and  he  would  lie  buried  in  entire  forget- 
fulness,  in  a  sweet  and  mighty  oblivion,  until  ten,  when  he 
would  suddenly  start  up,  and,  rubbing  his  eyes  with  great 
violence,  and  passing  his  fingers  swiftly  through  his  long 
hair,  would  enter  at  once  into  a  vehement  argument,  or 
begin  to  recite  verses,  either  of  his  own  composition  or 
from  the  works  of  others,  with  a  rapidity  and  an  energy 
that  were  often  quite  painful." 

Shelley's  moral  qualities  are  described  with  no  less  en- 
thusiasm than  his  intellectual  and  physical  beauty  by  the 
friend  from  whom  I  have  already  drawn  so  largely.  Love 
root  and  basis  of  his  natuicj  this  love,  first  de- 


n.]  ETON  AND  OXFORD.  31 

veloped  as  domestic  affection,  next  as  friendship,  then  as 
a  youth's  passion,  now  began  to  shine  with  steady  lustre 
as  an  all-embracing  devotion  to  his  fellow-men.  There  is 
something  inevitably  chilling  in  the  words  "  benevolence  " 
and  "  philanthropy."  A  disillusioned  world  is  inclined  to 
look  with  languid  approbation  on  the  former,  and  to  dis- 
believe in  the  latter.  Therefore  I  will  not  use  them  to 
describe  that  intense  and  glowing  passion  of  unselfishness, 
which  throughout  his  life  led  Shelley  to  find  his  strongest 
interests  in  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  his  fellow-creatures, 
which  inflamed  his  imagination  with  visions  of  humanity 
made  perfect,  and  which  filled  his  days  with  sweet  deeds 
of  unnumbered  charities.  I  will  rather  collect  from  the 
pages  of  his  friend's  biography  a  few  passages  recording 
the  first  impression  of  his  character,  the  memory  of  which 
may  be  carried  by  the  reader  through  the  following  brief 
record  of  his  singular  career : — 

"His  speculations  were  as  wild  as  the  experience  of 
twenty-one  years  has  shown  them  to  be ;  but  the  zealous 
earnestness  for  the  augmentation  of  knowledge,  and  the 
glowing  philanthropy  and  boundless  benevolence  that 
marked  them,  and  beamed  forth  in  the  whole  deportment 
of  that  extraordinary  boy,  are  not  less  astonishing  than 
they  would  have  been  if  the  whole  of  his  glorious  antici- 
pations had  been  prophetic ;  for  these  high  qualities,  at 
least,  I  have  never  found  a  parallel.'* 

"  In  no  individual  perhaps  was  the  moral  sense  ever 
more  completely  developed  than  in  Shelley;  in  no  be- 
ing was  the  perception  of  right  and  of  wrong  moro 
acute." 

"  As  his  love  of  intellectual  pursuits  was  vehement,  and 
the  vigour  of  his  genius  almost  celestial,  so  were  the  pu- 
rity and  sanctity  of  his  life  most  conspicuous," 


S3  SHELLEY.  [CHAT. 

"I  never  knew  any  one  so  prone  to  admire  as  he  was, 
in  whom  the  principle  of  veneration  was  so  strong." 

"I  have  had  the  happiness  to  associate  with  some  of 
the  best  specimens  of  gentlemen ;  but  with  all  due  defer* 
ence  for  those  admirable  persons  (may  my  candour  and 
my  preference  be  pardoned),  I  can  affirm  that  Shelley  was 
almost  the  only  example  I  have  yet  found  that  was  never 
wanting,  even  in  the  most  minute  particular,  of  the  infi- 
nite and  various  observances  of  pure,  entire,  and  perfect 
gentility." 

"  Shelley  was  actually  offended,  and  indeed  more  indig- 
nant than  would  appear  to  be  consistent  with  the  singular 
mildness  of  his  nature,  at  a  coarse  and  awkward  jest,  es- 
pecially if  it  were  immodest,  or  uncleanly ;  in  the  latter 
case  his  anger  was  unbounded,  and  his  uneasiness  pre-em- 
inent; he  was,  however,  sometimes  vehemently  delighted 
by  exquisite  and  delicate  sallies,  particularly  with  a  fanci- 
ful, and  perhaps  somewhat  fantastical  facetiousness — pos- 
sibly the  more  because  he  was  himself  utterly  incapable 
of  pleasantry." 

"  I  never  could  discern  in  him  any  more  thanfovo  fixed 
principle^  The  first  was  a  strong  irrepressible  love  of  lib- 
erty ;  of  liberty  in  the  abstract,  and  somewhat  after  the 


tihft_4ncient  republics,  without  reference  to  th» 


ff"gi;<jh  constitution,  respecting  which  he  knew  little 


v> 

cared  nothing,  heeding  it  not  at  all.  The  second  was  an 
equally  ardent  love^of  toleration  of  all  opinions,  but  more 
especially  of  rp.Hprjous  opinions ;  of_tnlerat,iqn^  complete, 


irejjiniversal.  unlimited;  and. as  a  deduction 

principle^he  felt  an  intense  abhor- 
rence of  persecution  of  every  kind,  public  or  private." 

The  testimony  in  the  foregoing  extracts  as  to  Shelley's 
purity  and  elevation  of  moral  character  is  all  the  stronger, 


H.]  ETON  AND  OXFORD.  33 

because  it  is  given  by  a  man  not  over-inclined  to  praise, 
and  of  a  temperament  as  unlike  the  poet's  as  possible.  If 
we  were  to  look  only  upon  this  side  of  his  portrait,  we 
should  indeed  be  almost  forced  to  use  the  language  of  his 
most  enthusiastic  worshippers,  and  call  him  an  archangel. 
But  it  must  be  admitted  that,  though  so  pure  and  gentle 
and  exalted,  Shelley's  virtues  were  marred  by  his  eccen- 
tricity, by  something  at  times  approaching  madness,  which 
paralyzed  his  efficiency  by  placing  him  in  a  glaringly  false 
relation  to  some  of  the  best  men  in  the  world  around  him. 
He  possessed  certain  good  qualities  in  excess ;  for,  though 
it  sounds  paradoxical,  it  is  none  the  less  true  that  a  man 
may  be  too  tolerant,  too  fond  of  liberty :  and  it  was  pre- 
cisely the  extravagance  of  these  virtues  in  Shelley  which 
drove  him  into  acts  and  utterances  so  antagonistic  to  so- 
ciety as  to  be  intolerable. 

Of  Shelley's  poetical  studies  we  hear  but  little  at  this 
epoch.  His  genius  by  a  stretch  of  fancy  might  be  com- 
pared to  one  of  those  double  stars  which  dart  blue  and 
red  rays  of  light :  for  it  was  governed  by  two  luminaries, 
poetry  and  metaphysics ;  and  at  this  time  the  latter  seems 
to  have  been  in  the  ascendant.  It  is,  however,  interesting 
to  learn  that  he  read  and  re-read  Landor's  Gebir — stronger 
meat  than  either  Southey's  epics  or  the  ghost -lyrics  of 
Monk  Lewis.  Hogg  found  him  one  day  busily  engaged 
in  correcting  proofs  of  some  original  poems.  Shelley 
asked  his  friend  what  he  thought  of  them,  and  Hogg  an- 
swered that  it  might  be  possible  by  a  little  alteration  to 
turn  them  into  capital  burlesques.  This  idea  took  the 
young  poet's  fancy ;  and  the  friends  between  them  soon 
effected  a  metamorphosis  in  Shelley's  serious  verses,  by 
which  they  became  unmistakably  ridiculous.  Having 
achieved  their  purpose,  they  now  bethought  them  of  the 


84  6HELLET.  [CHAT. 

proper  means  of  publication.  Upon  whom  should  tho 
poems,  a  medley  of  tyrannicide  and  revolutionary  raving, 
be  fathered?  Peg  Nicholson,  a  mad  washerwoman,  had 
recently  attempted  George  the  Third's  life  with  a  carving- 
knife.  No  more  fitting  author  could  be  found.  They 
would  give  their  pamphlet  to  the  world  as  her  work,  ed- 
ited by  an  admiring  nephew.  The  printer  appreciated  tho 
joke  no  less  than  the  authors  of  it.  He  provided  splendid 
paper  and  magnificent  type ;  and  before  long  the  book  of 
nonsense  was  in  the  hands  of  Oxford  readers.  It  sold  for 
the  high  price  of  half-a-crown  a  copy ;  and,  what  is  hardly 
credible,  the  gownsmen  received  it  as  a  genuine  produc- 
tion. "  It  was  indeed  a  kind  of  fashion  to  be  seen  read- 
ing it  in  public,  as  a  mark  of  nice  discernment,  of  a  deli- 
cate and  fastidious  taste  in  poetry,  and  the  best  criterion 
of  a  choice  spirit."  Such  was  the  genesis  of  Posthumou* 
Fragments  of  Margaret  Nicholson,  edited  by  John  Fita 
Victor.  The  name  of  the  supposititious  nephew  reminds 
us  of  Original  Poems  by  Victor  and  Cazire,  and  raises  the 
question  whether  the  poems  in  that  lost  volume  may  not 
have  partly  furnished  forth  this  Oxford  travesty. 

Shelley's  next  publication,  or  quasi-publication,  was  nei- 
ther so  innocent  in  substance  nor  so  pleasant  in  its  con- 
sequences. After  leaving  Eton,  he  continued  the  habit, 
learned  from  Dr.  Lind,  of  corresponding  with  distinguish- 
ed persons  whom  he  did  not  personally  know.  Thus  we 
find  him  about  this  time  addressing  Miss  Felicia  Browne 
(afterwards  Mrs.  Hemans)  and  Leigh  Hunt.  He  plied 
his  correspondents  with  all  kinds  of  questions ;  and  as 
the  dialectical  interest  was  uppermost  at  Oxford,  he  now 
endeavoured  to  engage  them  in  discussions  on  philosoph- 
ical and  religious  topics.  We  have  seen  that  his  favour- 
ite authors  were  Locke,  Hume,  and  the  French  materialists. 


n.J  ETON  AND  OXFORD.  36 

With  the  impulsiveness  peculiar  to  his  nature,  he  adopted 
the  negative  conclusions  of  a  shallow  nominalistic  philos- 
ophy. It  was  a  fundamental  point  with  him  to  regard 
all  questions^however  sifted  and  settled  by  the  wise  of 
former  ages,  as  still  open ;  and  in  his  inordinate  thirst  for 
liberty,  he  rejoiced  to  be  the  Deicide  of  a  pernicious  the- 
ological delusion.  In  other  words,  he  passed  at  Oxford 
by  one  leap  from  a  state  of  indifferentism  with  regard 
to  Christianity,  into  an  attitude  of  vehement  antagonism.  J 
With  a  view  to  securing  answers  to  his  missives,  he 
printed  a  short  abstract  of  Hume's  and  other  arguments 
against  the  existence  of  a  Deity,  presented  in  a  series  of 
propositions,  and  signed  with  a  mathematically  important 
"  Q.  E.  D."  This  document  he  forwarded  to  his  proposed 
antagonists,  expressing  his  inability  to  answer  its  argu- 
ments, and  politely  requesting  them  to  help  him.  When 
it  so  happened  that  any  incautious  correspondents  acceded 
to  this  appeal,  Shelley  fell  with  merciless  severity  upon 
their  feeble  and  commonplace  reasoning.  The  little  pam- 
phlet of  two  pages  was  entitled  The  Necessity  of  Atheism; 
and  its  proposed  publication,  beyond  the  limits  of  private 
circulation  already  described,  is  proved  by  an  advertise- 
ment (Feb.  9, 1811)  in  the  Oxford  University  and  City 
Herald.  It  was  not,  however,  actually  offered  for  sale. 

A  copy  of  this  syllabus  reached  a  Fellow  of  another 
college,  who  made  the  Master  of  University  acquainted 
with  the  fact.  On  the  morning  of  March  25,  1811, 
Shelley  was  sent  for  to  the  Senior  Common  Room,  and 
asked  whether  he  acknowledged  himself  to  be  the  author 
of  the  obnoxious  pamphlet.  On  his  refusal  to  answer 
this  question,  he  was  served  with  a  formal  sentence  of  ex- 
pulsion duly  drawn  up  and  sealed.  The  college  author- 
ities have  been  blamed  for  unfair  dealing  in  this  mattes 


86  SHELLEY.  [CHAT. 

It  is  urged  that  they  ought  to  have  proceeded  by  the 
legal  method  of  calling  witnesses;  and  that  the  sentence 
was  not  only  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  offence,  but 
that  it  ought  not  to  have  been  executed  till  persuasion 
had  been  tried.  With  regard  to  the  former  indictment, 
I  do  not  think  that  a  young  man  still  in  statu  pupillari, 
who  refused  to  purge  himself  of  what  he  must  have 
known  to  be  a  serious  charge,  had  any  reason  to  expect 
from  his  tutors  the  formalities  of  an  English  court  of  law. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  the  Fellows  were  satisfied  of  his 
being  the  real  author ;  else  they  could  not  have  ventured 
on  so  summary  a  measure  as  expulsion.  Their  question 
was  probably  intended  to  give  the  culprit  an  occasion  for 
apology,  of  which  they  foresaw  he  would  not  avail  him- 
self. With  regard  to  the  second,  it  is  true  that  Shel- 
ley was  amenable  to  kindness,  and  that  gentle  and  wise 
treatment  from  men  whom  he  respected,  might  possibly 
have  brought  him  to  retract  his  syllabus.  But  it  must 
be  remembered  that  he  despised  the  Oxford  dons  with 
all  his  heart ;  and  they  were  probably  aware  of  this.  He 
was  a  dexterous,  impassioned  reasoner,  whom  they  little 
cared  to  encounter  in  argument  on  such  a  topic.  During 
his  short  period  of  residence,  moreover,  he  had  not  shown 
himself  so  tractable  as  to  secure  the  good  wishes  of  supe- 
riors, who  prefer  conformity  to  incommensurable  genius. 
It  is  likely  that  they  were  not  averse  to  getting  rid  of 
him  as  a  man  dangerous  to  the  peace  of  their  society ; 
and  now  they  had  a  good  occasion.  Nor  was  it  to  be 
expected  that  the  champion  and  apostle  of  Atheism — and 
Shelley  was  certainly  both,  in  spite  of  Hogg's  attempts  to 
tone  down  the  purpose  of  his  document — should  be  un- 
molested in  his  propaganda  by  the  aspirants  to  fat  livings 
and  ecclesiastical  dignities.  Real  blame,  however,  attaches 


B.]  ETON  AND  OXFORD.  $7 

to  these  men :  first,  for  their  dulness  to  discern  Shelley's 
amiable  qualities ;  and,  secondly,  for  the  prejudgment  of 
the  case  implied  in  the  immediate  delivery  of  their  sen- 
tence. Both  Hogg  and  Shelley  accused  them,  besides,  of 
a  gross  brutality,  which  was,  to  say  the  least,  unseemly  on 
so  serious  an  occasion.  At  the  beginning  of  this  century 
the  learning  and  the  manners  of  the  Oxford  dons  were  at 
a  low  ebb ;  and  the  Fellows  of  University  College  acted 
harshly  but  not  altogether  unjustly,  ignorantly  but  after 
their  own  kind,  in  this  matter  of  Shelley's  expulsion. 
Non  ragionam  di  lor,  ma  guarda  e  passa.  Hogg,  who 
stood  by  his  friend  manfully  at  this  crisis,  and  dared  the 
authorities  to  deal  with  him  as  they  had  dealt  with  Shelley, 
adding  that  they  had  just  as  much  real  proof  to  act  upon 
in  his  case,  and  intimating  his  intention  of  returning  the 
same  answer  as  to  the  authorship  of  the  pamphlet,  was 
likewise  expelled.  The  two  friends  left  Oxford  together 
by  the  coach  on  the  morning  of  the  26th  of  March. 

Shelley  felt  his  expulsion  acutely.  At  Oxford  he  had 
enjoyed  the  opportunities  of  private  reading  which  the 
University  afforded  in  those  days  of  sleepy  studies  and 
innocuous  examinations.  He  delighted  in  the  security  of 
his  "  oak,"  and  above  all  things  he  found  pleasure  in  the 
society  of  his  one  chosen  friend.  He  was  now  obliged  to 
exchange  these  good  things  for  the  tumult  and  discomfort 
of  London.  His  father,  after  clumsily  attempting  com- 
promises, had  forbidden  his  return  to  Field  Place.  The 
whole  fabric  of  his  former  life  was  broken  up.  The  last 
hope  of  renewing  his  engagement  with  his  cousin  had  to 
be  abandoned.  His  pecuniary  position  was  precarious, 
and  in  a  short  time  he  was  destined  to  lose  the  one  friend 
who  had  so  generously  shared  his  fate.  Yet  the  notion 
of  recovering  his  position  as  a  student  in  one  of  our  great 

57292 


::*>  SHELLET  [CHAT.  n. 

Universities,  of  softening  his  father's  indignation,  or  of 
ameliorating  his  present  circumstances  by  the  least  con- 
cession, never  seems  to  have  occurred  to  him.  He  had 
suffered  in  the  cause  of  truth  and  liberty,  and  he  willingly 
accepted  his  martyrdom  for  conscience'  sake. 


CHAPTER  IIL 

LIFE    IN    LONDON    AND    FIRST    MARRIAGE. 

IT  is  of  some  importance  at  this  point  to  trace  the 
growth  and  analyse  the  substance  of  Shelley's  atheistical 
opinions.  The  cardinal  characteristic  of  his  nature  was  an 
implacable  antagonism  to  shams  and  conventions,  which 
passed  too  easily  into  impatient  rejection  of  established 
forms  as  worse  than  useless.  Born  in  the  stronghold  of 
squirearchical  prejudices,  nursed  amid  the  trivial  platitudes 
that  then  passed  in  England  for  philosophy,  his  keen  spirit 
flew  to  the  opposite  pole  of  thought  with  a  recoil  that 
carried  him  at  first  to  inconsiderate  negation.  His  pas- 
sionate love  of  liberty,  his  loathing  for  intolerance,  his  im- 
patience of  control  for  self  and  others,  and  his  vivid  logi- 
cal sincerity,  combined  to  make  him  the  Quixotic  cham- 
pion of  extreme  opinions.  He  was  too  fearless  to  be  wise, 
too  precipitate  to  suspend  his  judgment,  too  convinced  of 
the  paramount  importance  of  iconoclasm,  to  mature  his 
views  in  silence.  With  the  unbounded  audacity  of  youth, 
he  hoped  to  take  the  fortresses  of  "Anarch  Custom"  by 
storm  at  the  first  assault.  His  favourite  ideal  was  the  vi- 
sion of  a  youth,  Laon  or  Lionel,  whose  eloquence  had  pow- 
er to  break  the  bonds  of  despotism,  as  the  sun  thaws  ice 
upon  an  April  morning.  It  was  enough,  he  thought,  to 
hurl  the  glove  of  defiance  boldly  at  the  tyrant's  face — to 


40  SHELLEY.  [CHAP. 

sow  the  Necessity  of  Atheism  broadcast  on  the  bench  of 
Bishops,  and  to  depict  incest  in  his  poetry,  not  because  ho 
wished  to  defend  it,  but  because  society  must  learn  to  face 
the  most  abhorrent  problems  with  impartiality.  Gifted 
with  a  touch  as  unerring  as  Ithuriel's  spear  for  the  un- 
masking of  hypocrisy,  he  strove  to  lay  bare  the  very  sub- 
stance of  the  soul  beneath  the  crust  of  dogma  and  the 
froth  of  traditional  beliefs ;  nor  does  it  seem  to  have  oc- 
curred to  him  that,  while  he  stripped  the  rags  and  patches 
that  conceal  the  nakedness  of  ordinary  human  nature,  he 
might  drag  away  the  weft  and  woof  of  nobler  thought. 
In  his  poet -philosopher's  imagination  there  bloomed  a 
wealth  of  truth  and  love  and  beauty  so  abounding,  that 
behind  the  mirage  he  destroyed,  he  saw  no  blank,  but  a 
new  Eternal  City  of  the  Spirit.  He  never  doubted  wheth- 
er his  fellow-creatures  were  certain  to  be  equally  fortunate. 
Shelley  had  no  faculty  for  compromise,  no  perception 
of  the  blended  truths  and  falsehoods  through  which  the 
mind  of  man  must  gradually  win  its  way  from  the  obscu- 
rity of  myths  into  the  clearness  of  positive  knowledge,  for 
ever  toiling  and  for  ever  foiled,  and  forced  to  content  itself 
with  the  increasing  consciousness  of  limitations.  Brim- 
ming over  with  love  for  men,  he  was  deficient  in  sympa- 
thy with  the  conditions  under  which  they  actually  think 
and  feel.  Could  he  but  dethrone  the  Anarch  Custom,  the 
millennium,  he  argued,  would  immediately  arrive ;  nor  did 
he  stop  to  think  how  different  was  the  fibre  of  his  own 
soul  from  that  of  the  unnumbered  multitudes  around  him. 
In  his  adoration  of  what  he  recognized  as  living,  he  re- 
tained no  reverence  for  the  ossified  experience  of  past 
ages.  The  principle  of  evolution,  which  forms  a  saving 
link  between  the  obsolete  and  the  organically  vital,  had  no 
place  in  his  logic.  The  spirit  of  the  French  Revolution, 


m.]          LIFE  IN  LONDON  AND  FIRST  MARRIAGE.  41 

uncompromising,  shattering,  eager  to  build  in  a  day  the 
structure  which  long  centuries  of  growth  must  fashion, 
was  still  fresh  upon  him.  We  who  have  survived  the  en- 
thusiasms of  that  epoch,  who  are  exhausted  with  its  pas- 
sions, and  who  have  suffered  from  its  reactive  impulses, 
can  scarcely  comprehend  the  vivid  faith  and  young-eyed 
joy  of  aspiration  which  sustained  Shelley  in  his  flight  to- 
ward the  region  of  impossible  ideals.  For  he  had  a  vital 
faith ;  and  this  faith  made  the  ideals  he  conceived  seem 
possible — faith  in  the  duty  and  desirability  of  overthrow- 
ing idols ;  faith  in  the  gospel  of  liberty,  fraternity,  equal- 
ity ;  faith  in  the  divine  beauty  of  nature ;  faith  in  a  love 
that  rules  the  universe ;  faith  in  the  perfectibility  of  man ; 
faith  in  the  omnipresent  soul,  whereof  our  souls  are  atoms; 
faith  in  affection  as  the  ruling  and  co-ordinating  substance 
of  morality.  The  man  who  lived  by  this  faith  was  in 
no  vulgar  sense  of  the  word  an  Atheist.  When  he  pro- 
claimed himself  to  be  one,  he  pronounced  his  hatred  of  a 
gloomy  religion,  which  had  been  the  instrument  of  kings 
and  priests  for  the  enslavement  of  their  fellow-creatures. 
As  he  told  his  friend  Trelawny,  he  used  the  word  Atheism 
"  to  express  his  abhorrence  of  superstition ;  he  took  it  up 
as  a  knight  took  up  a  gauntlet,  in  defiance  of  injustice." 
But  Shelley  believed  too  much  to  be  consistently  agnostic. 
He  believed  so  firmly  and  intensely  in  his  own  religion — 
a  kind  of  passionate  positivism,  a  creed  which  seemed  to 
have  no  God  because  it  was  all  God  —  that  he  felt  con- 
vinced he  only  needed  to  destroy  accepted  figments,  for 
the  light  which  blazed  around  him  to  break  through  and 
flood  the  world  with  beauty.  Shelley  can  only  be  called 
an  Atheist,  in  so  far  as  he  maintained  the  inadequacy  of 
hitherto  received  conceptions  of  the  Deity,  and  indignant- 
ly rejected  that  Moloch  of  cruelty  who  is  worshipped  in 
D  3 


42  SIIKIJ.KV  [CHJP. 

the  debased  forms  of  Christianity.  He  was  an  Agnostic 
only  in  so  far  as  he  proclaimed  the  impossibility  of  solv- 
ing the  insoluble,  and  knowing  the  unknowable.  His  clear 
and  fearless  utterances  upon  these  points  place  him  in  the 
rank  of  intellectual  heroes.  But  his  own  soul,  compact  of 
human  faith  and  love,  was  far  too  religious  and  too  san- 
guine to  merit  either  epithet  as  vulgarly  applied. 

The  negative  side  of  Shelley's  creed  had  the  moral 
value  which  attaches  to  all  earnest  conviction,  plain 
speech,  defiance  of  convention,  and  enthusiasm  for  intel- 
lectual liberty  at  any  cost.  It  was  marred,  however,  by 
extravagance,  crudity,  and  presumption.  Much  that  he 
would  fain  have  destroyed  because  he  found  it  custom- 
ary, was  solid,  true,  and  beneficial.  Much  that  he  thought 
it  desirable  to  substitute,  was  visionary,  hollow,  and  per- 
nicious. He  lacked  the  touchstone  of  mature  philoso- 
phy, whereby  to  separate  the  pinchbeck  from  the  gold 
of  social  usage;  and  in  his  intense  enthusiasm  he  lost 
his  hold  on  common  sense,  which  might  have  saved  him 
from  the  puerility  of  arrogant  iconoclasm.  The  positive 
side  of  his  creed  remains  precious,  not  because  it  was  log- 
ical, or  scientific,  or  coherent,  but  because  it  was  an  ideal, 
fervently  felt,  and  penetrated  with  the  whole  life -force 
of  an  incomparable  nature.  Such  ideals  are  needed  for 
sustaining  man  upon  his  path  amid  the  glooms  and  shad- 
ows of  impenetrable  ignorance.  They  form  the  seal  and 
pledge  of  his  spiritual  dignity,  reminding  him  that  he  was 
not  born  to  live  like  brutes,  or  like  the  brutes  to  perish 
without  effort. 

Fatti  non  foate  a  viver  come  bruti, 
Ma  per  seguir  virtude  e  conoscenza. 

These  criticisms  apply  to  the  speculations  of  Shelley's 
earlier  life,  when  his  crusade  against  accepted  usage  was 


in.]  LIFE  IN  LONDON  AND  FIRST  MARRIAGE.  43 

extravagant,  and  his  confidence  in  the  efficacy  of  mere 
eloquence  to  change  the  world  was  overweening.  The 
experience  of  years,  however,  taught  him  wisdom  without 
damping  his  enthusiasm,  refined  the  crudity  of  his  first 
fervent  speculations,  and  mellowed  his  philosophy.  Had 
he  lived  to  a  ripe  age,  there  is  no  saying  with  what  clear 
and  beneficent  lustre  might  have  shone  that  light  of  as- 
piration which  during  his  turbid  youth  burned  somewhat 
luridly,  and  veiled  its  radiance  in  the  smoke  of  mere  re- 
belliousness and  contradiction. 

Hogg  and  Shelley  settled  in  lodgings  at  No.  15,  Poland 
Street,  soon  after  their  arrival  in  London.  The  name 
attracted  Shelley :  "  it  reminded  him  of  Thaddeus  of  War- 
saw and  of  freedom."  He  was  further  fascinated  by  a 
gaudy  wall-paper  of  vine-trellises  and  grapes,  which  adorn- 
ed the  parlour ;  and  vowed  that  he  would  stay  there  for 
ever.  "  For  ever,"  was  a  word  often  upon  Shelley's  lips 
in  the  course  of  his  checquered  life ;  and  yet  few  men 
have  been  subject  to  so  many  sudden  changes  through 
the  buffetings  of  fortune  from  without  and  the  incon- 
stancy of  their  own  purpose,  than  he  was.  His  biogra- 
pher has  no  little  trouble  to  trace  and  note  with  accuracy 
his  perpetual  Sittings  and  the  names  of  his  innumerable 
temporary  residences.  A  month  had  not  elapsed  before 
Hogg  left  him  in  order  to  begin  his  own  law  studies  at 
York;  and  Shelley  abode  "alone  in  the  vine  -  trellised 
chamber,  where  he  was  to  remain,  a  bright-eyed,  restless 
fox  amidst  sour  grapes,  not,  as  his  poetic  imagination  at 
first  suggested,  for  ever,  but  a  little  while  longer." 

The  records  of  this  first  residence  in  London  are 
meagre,  but  not  unimportant.  We  hear  of  negotiations 
and  interviews  with  Mr.  Timothy  Shelley,  all  of  which 
proved  unavailing.  Shelley  would  not  recede  from  the 


44  SHELLEY.  [CHAT. 

position  he  had  taken  up.  Nothing  would  induce  him 
to  break  off  his  intimacy  with  Hogg,  or  to  place  himself 
under  the  tutor  selected  for  him  by  his  father.  For 
Paley's,  or  as  Mr.  Shelley  called  him  "  Palley's,"  Evidences 
he  expressed  unbounded  contempt.  The  breach  between 
them  gradually  widened.  Mr.  Shelley  at  last  determined 
to  try  the  effect  of  cutting  off  supplies ;  but  his  son  only 
hardened  his  heart,  and  sustained  himself  by  a  proud 
consciousness  of  martyrdom.  I  agree  with  Shelley's  last 
and  best  biographer,  Mr.  W.  M.  Rossetti,  in  his  condemna- 
tion of  the  poet's  behaviour  as  a  son.  Shelley  did  not 
treat  his  father  with  the  common  consideration  due  from 
youth  to  age ;  and  the  only  instances  of  unpardonable  bad 
taste  to  be  found  in  his  correspondence  or  the  notes  of  his 
conversation,  arc  insulting  phrases  applied  to  a  man  who 
was  really  more  unfortunate  than  criminal  in  his  relations 
to  this  changeling  from  the  realms  of  faery.  It  is  not 
too  much  to  say  that  his  dislike  of  his  father  amounted 
to  derangement;  and  certainly  some  of  his  suspicions 
with  regard  to  him  were  the  hallucinations  of  a  heated 
fancy.  How  so  just  and  gentle  a  nature  was  brought 
into  so  false  a  moral  situation,  whether  by  some  sudden 
break-down  of  confidence  in  childhood  or  by  a  gradually 
increasing  mistrust,  is  an  interesting  but  perhaps  insoluble 
problem.  We  only  know  that  in  his  early  boyhood  Shel- 
ley loved  his  father  so  much  as  to  have  shown  unusual 
emotion  during  his  illness  on  one  occasion,  but  that, 
while  at  Eton,  he  had  already  become  possessed  by  a 
dark  suspicion  concerning  him.  This  is  proved  by  the 
episode  of  Dr.  Lind's  visit  during  his  fever.  Then  and 
ever  afterwards  he  expected  monstrous  treatment  at  his 
hands,  although  the  elder  gentleman  was  nothing  worse 
than  a  muddle-headed  squire.  It  has  more  than  once 


TO.]  LIFE  IN  LONDON  AND  FIRST  MARRIAGE.  45 

occurred  to  me  that  this  fever  may  have  been  a  turning 
point  in  his  history,  and  that  a  delusion,  engendered  by 
delirium,  may  have  fixed  itself  upon  his  mind,  owing  to 
some  imperfection  in  the  process  of  recovery.  But  the 
theory  is  too  speculative  and  unsupported  by  proof  to  be 
more  than  passingly  alluded  to. 

At  this  time  Shelley  found  it  difficult  to  pay  his  lodg- 
ings and  buy  food.  It  is  said  that  his  sisters  saved  their 
pocket-money  to  support  him :  and  we  know  that  he  paid 
them  frequent  visits  at  their  school  on  Clapham  Common. 
It  was  here  that  his  characteristic  hatred  of  tyranny  dis- 
played itself  on  two  occasions.  "One  day,"  writes  Miss 
Hellen  Shelley,  "his  ire  vras  greatly  excited  at  a  black 
mark  hung  round  one  of  our  throats,  as  a  penalty  for  some 
small  misdemeanour.  He  expressed  great  disapprobation, 
more  of  the  system  than  that  one  of  his  sisters  should  be 
so  punished.  Another  time  he  found  me,  I  think,  in  an 
iron  collar,  which  certainly  was  a  dreadful  instrument  of 
torture  in  my  opinion.  It  was  not  worn  as  a  punishment, 
but  because  I  poked;  but  Bysshe  declared  it  would  make 
me  grow  crooked,  and  ought  to  be  discontinued  immedi- 
ately." The  acquaintance  which  he  now  made  with  one 
of  his  sister's  school  friends  was  destined  to  lead  to  most 
important  results.1  Harriet  Westbrook  was  a  girl  of  six- 
teen years,  remarkably  good-looking,  with  a  brilliant  pink 
and  white  complexion,  beautiful  brown  hair,  a  pleasant 
voice,  and  a  cheerful  temper.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a 
man  who  kept  a  coffee-house  in  Mount  Street,  nick-named 
"  Jew  "  Westbrook,  because  of  his  appearance.  She  had 
an  elder  sister,  called  Eliza,  dark  of  complexion,  and  gaunt 
of  figure,  with  the  abundant  hair  that  plays  so  prominent 
a  part  in  Hogg's  relentless  portrait.  Eliza,  being  nearly 

1  It  is  probable  that  he  saw  her  for  the  first  time  in  January,  181L 


46  SUELUET.  [ou*. 

twice  as  old  as  Harriet,  stood  in  the  relation  of  a  mother 
to  her.  Both  of  these  young  ladies,  and  the  "  Jew  "  their 
father,  welcomed  Shelley  with  distinguished  kindness. 
Though  he  was  penniless  for  the  nonce,  exiled  from  his 
home,  and  under  the  ban  of  his  family's  displeasure,  he 
was  still  the  heir  to  a  large  landed  fortune  and  a  baronetcy. 
It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  the  coffee-house  people 
should  look  upon  him  with  disfavour. 

Shelley  paid  Harriet  frequent  visits  both  at  Mrs.  Fen- 
ning's  school  and  at  Mount  Street,  and  soon  began  a  cor- 
respondence with  her,  hoping,  as  he  expressly  stated  in  a 
letter  of  a  later  date,  by  converting  her  to  his  theories,  to 
add  his  sister  and  her  "  to  the  list  of  the  good,  the  disin- 
terested, the  free."  At  first  she  seems  to  have  been  horri- 
fied at  the  opinions  he  expressed ;  but  in  this  case  at  least 
he  did  not  overrate  the  powers  of  eloquence.  With  all 
the  earnestness  of  an  evangelist,  he  preached  his  gospel  of 
freethought  or  atheism,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  form- 
ing his  young  pupil  to  his  views.  He  does  not  seem  to 
have  felt  any  serious  inclination  for  Harriet;  but  in  tho 
absence  of  other  friends,  he  gladly  availed  himself  of  her 
society.  Gradually  she  became  more  interesting  to  him, 
when  he  heard  mysterious  accounts  of  suffering  at  home 
and  tyranny  at  school.  This  was  enough  to  rouse  in  Shel- 
ley the  spirit  of  Quixotic  championship,  if  not  to  sow  the 
seeds  of  love.  What  Harriet's  ill-treatment  really  was,  no 
one  has  been  able  to  discover ;  yet  she  used  to  affirm  that 
her  life  at  this  time  was  so  irksome  that  she  contemplated 
suicide. 

During  the  summer  of  1811,  Shelley's  movements  were 
more  than  usually  erratic,  and  his  mind  was  in  a  state  of 
extraordinary  restlessness.  In  the  month  of  May,  a  kind 
of  accommodation  was  come  to  with  his  father.  He  re- 


in.]          LIFE  IN  LONDON  AND  FIRST  MARRIAGE.  47 

ceived  permission  to  revisit  Field  Place,  and  had  an  allow- 
ance made  him  of  200/.  a  year.  His  uncle,  Captain  Pil- 
fold  of  Cuckfield,  was  instrumental  in  effecting  this  partial 
reconciliation.  Shelley  spent  some  time  at  his  uncle's 
country  house,  oscillating  between  London,  Cuckfield,  and 
Field  Place,  with  characteristic  rapidity,  and  paying  one 
flying  visit  to  his  cousin  Grove  at  Cwm  Elan,  near  Rhaya- 
der,  in  North  Wales.  This  visit  is  worth  mention,  since 
he  now  for  the  first  time  saw  the  scenery  of  waterfalls 
and  mountains.  He  was,  however,  too  much  preoccupied 
to  take  much  interest  in  nature.  He  was  divided  between 
his  old  affection  for  Miss  Grove,  his  new  but  somewhat 
languid  interest  in  Harriet,  and  a  dearly  cherished  scheme 
for  bringing  about  a  marriage  between  his  sister  Elizabeth 
and  his  friend  Hogg.  The  letters  written  to  Hogg  at  this 
period  (vol.  i.  pp.  387 — 418),  are  exceedingly  important 
and  interesting,  revealing  as  they  do  the  perturbation  of 
his  feelings  and  the  almost  morbid  excitement  of  his  mind. 
But  they  are  unluckily  so  badly  edited,  whether  designedly 
or  by  accident,  that  it  would  be  dangerous  to  draw  minute 
conclusions  from  them.  As  they  stand,  they  raise  injuri- 
ous suspicions,  which  can  only  be  set  at  rest  by  a  proper 
assignment  of  dates  and  explanations. 

Meanwhile  his  destiny  was  shaping  itself  with  a  rapidity 
that  plunged  him  suddenly  into  decisive  and  irrevocable 
action.  It  is  of  the  greatest  moment  to  ascertain  precisely 
what  his  feelings  were  during  this  summer  with  regard  to 
Harriet.  Hogg  has  printed  two  letters  in  immediate  jux- 
taposition :  the  first  without  date,  the  second  with  the 
post-mark  of  Rhayader.  Shelley  ends  the  first  epistle 
thus :  "  Your  jokes  on  Harriet  Westbrook  amuse  me  :  it 
is  a  common  error  for  people  to  fancy  others  in  their  own 
situation,  but  if  I  know  anything  about  love,  I  am  not  in 
30 


48  HIKI.I.KY  [our. 

love.  I  have  heard  from  the  Westbrooks,  both  of  whom 
I  highly  esteem."  lie  begins  the  second  with  these  words : 
"  You  will  perhaps  see  mo  before  you  can  answer  this ; 
perhaps  not ;  heaven  knows !  I  shall  certainly  come  to 
York,  but  Harriet  Westbrook  will  decide  whether  now 
or  in  three  weeks.  Her  father  has  persecuted  her  in  a 
most  horrible  way,  by  endeavouring  to  compel  her  to  go  to 
school.  She  asked  my  advice :  resistance  was  the  answer, 
at  the  same  time  that  I  essayed  to  mollify  Mr.  W.  in  vain  ! 
And  in  consequence  of  my  advice  she  has  thrown  herself 
upon  my  protection.  I  set  off  for  London  on  Monday. 
How  flattering  a  distinction ! — I  am  thinking  of  ten  mill- 
ion things  at  once.  What  have  I  said  ?  I  declare,  quite 
ludicrous.  I  advised  her  to  resist.  She  wrote  to  say  that 
resistance  was  useless,  but  that  she  would  fly  with  me,  and 
threw  herself  upon  my  protection.  We  shall  have  200/.  a 
year ;  when  we  find  it  run  short,  we  must  live,  I  suppose, 
upon  love !  Gratitude  and  admiration,  all  demand  that  I 
should  love  her  for  ever.  We  shall  see  you  at  York.  I 
will  hear  your  arguments  for  matrimonialism,  by  which 
I  am  now  almost  convinced.  I  can  get  lodgings  at  York, 
I  suppose.  Direct  to  me  at  Graham's,  18,  Sackville 
Street,  Piccadilly."  From  a  letter  recently  published  by 
Mr.  W.  M.  Rossetti  (the  University  Magazine,  Feb.,  1878), 
we  further  learn  that  Harriet,  having  fallen  violently  in 
love  with  her  preceptor,  had  avowed  her  passion  and  flung 
herself  into  his  arms. 

It  is  clear  from  these  documents,  first,  that  Shelley  was 
not  deeply  in  love  with  Harriet  when  he  eloped  with  her ; 
secondly,  that  he  was  not  prepared  for  the  step ;  thirdly, 
that  she  induced  him  to  take  it ;  and  fourthly,  that  he 
took  it  under  a  strong  impression  of  her  having  been  ill- 
treated.  She  had  appealed  to  his  most  powerful  passion, 


m.]          LIFE  IN  LONDON  AND  FIRST  MARRIAGE.  49 

the  hatred  of  tyranny.  She  had  excited  his  admiration  by 
setting  conventions  at  defiance,  and  showing  her  readiness 
to  be  his  mistress.  Her  confidence  called  forth  his  grati- 
tude. Her  choice  of  him  for  a  protector  flattered  him : 
and,  moreover,  she  had  acted  on  his  advice  to  carry  resist- 
ance a  ou  trance.  There  were  many  good  Shelley  an  rea- 
sons why  he  should  elope  with  Harriet ;  but  among  them 
all  I  do  not  find  that  spontaneous  and  unsophisticated 
feeling,  which  is  the  substance  of  enduring  love. 

In  the  same  series  of  letters,  so  incoherently  jumbled 
together  by  Hogg's  carelessness  or  caprice,  Shelley  more 
than  once  expresses  the  utmost  horror  of  matrimony.  Yet 
we  now  find  him  upon  the  verge  of  contracting  marriage 
with  a  woman  whom  he  did  not  passionately  love,  and 
who  had  offered  herself  unreservedly  to  him.  It  is  worth 
pausing  to  observe  that  even  Shelley,  fearless  and  uncom- 
promising as  he  was  in  conduct,  could  not  at  this  crisis 
practise  the  principles  he  so  eloquently  impressed  on  oth- 
ers. Yet  the  point  of  weakness  was  honourable.  It  lay 
\  in  his  respect  for  women  in  general,  and  in  his  tender 
5  chivalry  for  the  one  woman  who  had  cast  herself  upon 
his  generosity.1 

"  My  unfortunate  friend  Harriet,"  he  writes  under  date 
Aug.  15,  1811,  from  London,  whither  he  had  hurried  to 
arrange  the  affairs  of  his  elopement,  "  is  yet  undecided ; 
not  with  respect  to  me,  but  to  herself.  How  much,  my 
dear  friend,  have  I  to  tell  you.  In  my  leisure  moments 
for  thought,  which  since  I  wrote  have  been  few,  I  have 
considered  the  important  point  on  which  you  reprobated 
my  hasty  decision.  The  ties  of  love  and  honour  are 
doubtless  of  sufficient  strength  to  bind  congenial  souls — 

1  See  Shelley's  third  letter  to  Godwin  (Hogg,  ii.  p.  63)  for  another 
defence  of  his  conduct.     "  We  agreed,"  &c. 
3* 


BO  SHELLEY.  [CHAF. 

they  arc  doubtless  indissoluble,  but  by  the  brutish  force  of 
power ;  they  are  delicate  and  satisfactory.  Yet  the  argu- 
ments of  impracticability,  and  what  is  even  worse,  the  dis- 
proportionate  sacrifice  which  the  female  is  called  upon  to 
make — these  arguments,  which  you  have  urged  in  a  man- 
ner immediately  irresistible,  I  cannot  withstand.  Not  that 
I  suppose  it  to  be  likely  that  /  shall  directly  be  called 
upon  to  evince  my  attachment  to  cither  theory.  I  am  be- 
come a  perfect  convert  to  matrimony,  not  from  tempo- 
rizing, but  from  your  arguments ;  nor,  much  as  I  wish  to 
emulate  your  virtues  and  liken  myself  to  you,  do  I  regret 
tie  prejudices  of  anti-matrimonialism  from  your  example 
or  assertion.  No.  The  one  argument,  which  you  have 
urged  so  often  with  so  much  energy ;  the  sacrifice  made 
by  the  woman,  so  disproportioned  to  any  which  the  man 
can  give — this  alone  may  exculpate  me,  were  it  a  fault, 
from  uninquiring  submission  to  your  superior  intellect" 

Whether  Shelley  from  his  own  peculiar  point  of  view 
was  morally  justified  in  twice  marrying,  is  a  question  of 
casuistry  which  has  often  haunted  me.  The  reasons  he 
alleged  in  extenuation  of  his  conduct  with  regard  to  Har- 
riet, prove  the  goodness  of  his  heart,  his  openness  to  argu- 
ment, and  the  delicacy  of  his  unselfishness.  But  they  do 
not  square  with  his  expressed  code  of  conduct;  nor  is  it 
easy  to  understand  how,  having  found  it  needful  to  sub- 
mit to  custom,  for  his  partner's  sake,  he  should  have  gone 
on  denouncing  an  institution  which  he  recognized  in  his 
own  practice.  The  conclusion  seems  to  be  that,  though 
he  despised  accepted  usage,  and  would  fain  Lave  fashion- 
ed the  world  afresh  to  suit  his  heart's  desire,  the  instincts 
of  a  loyal  gentleman  and  his  practical  good  sense  were 
stronger  than  his  theories. 

A  letter  from  Shelley's  cousin,  Mr.  C.  H.  Grove,  gives 


m.]          LIFE  IN  LONDON  AND  FIRST  MARRIAGE.  51 

the  details  of  Harriet's  elopement.  "  When  Bysshe  finally 
came  to  town  to  elope  with  Miss  Westbrook,  he  came  as 
usual  to  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  and  I  was  his  companion  on 
his  visits  to  her,  and  finally  accompanied  them  early  one 
morning — I  forget  now  the  month,  or  the  date,  but  it 
might  have  been  September — in  a  hackney  coach  to  the 
Green  Dragon,  in  Gracechurch  Street,  where  we  remained 
all  day,  till  the  hour  when  the  mail-coaches  start,  when 
they  departed  in  the  northern  mail  for  York."  From 
York  the  young  couple  made  their  way  at  once  to  Edin- 
burgh, where  they  were  married  according  to  the  formali- 
ties of  the  Scotch  law. 

Shelley  had  now  committed  that  greatest  of  social 
crimes  in  his  father's  eyes — a  mesalliance.  Supplies  and 
communications  were  at  once  cut  off  from  the  prodigal ; 
and  it  appears  that  Harriet  and  he  were  mainly  dependent 
upon  the  generosity  of  Captain  Pilfold  for  subsistence. 
Even  Jew  Westbrook,  much  as  he  may  have  rejoiced  at 
seeing  his  daughter  wedded  to  the  heir  of  several  thou- 
sands a  year,  buttoned  up  his  pockets,  either  because  he 
thought  it  well  to  play  the  part  of  an  injured  parent,  or 
because  he  was  not  certain  about  Shelley's  expectations. 
He  afterwards  made  the  Shelley s  an  allowance  of  2001.  a 
year,  and  early  in  1812  Shelley  says  that  he  is  in  receipt 
of  twice  that  income.  Whence  we  may  conclude  that 
both  fathers  before  long  relented  to  the  extent  of  the  sum 
above  mentioned. 

In  spite  of  temporary  impecuniosity,  the  young  people 
lived  happily  enough  in  excellent  lodgings  in  George 
Street.  Hogg,  who  joined  them  early  in  September,  has 
drawn  a  lively  picture  of  their  domesticity.  Much  of  the 
day  was  spent  in  reading  aloud ;  for  Harriet,  who  had  a 
fine  voice  and  excellent  lungs,  was  never  happy  unless  she 


51  8HELLET.  [CRAP. 

was  allowed  to  read  and  comment  on  her  favonritc  authors. 
Shelley  sometimes  fell  asleep  during  the  performance  of 
these  rites ;  but  when  he  woke  refreshed  with  slumber,  he 
was  no  less  ready  than  at  Oxford  to  support  philosophi- 
cal paradoxes  with  impassioned  and  persuasive  eloquence. 
He  began  to  teach  Harriet  Latin,  set  her  to  work  upon 
the  translation  of  a  French  story  by  Madame  Cottin,  and 
for  his  own  part  executed  a  version  of  one  of  Buffon's 
treatises.  The  sitting-room  was  full  of  books.  It  was 
one  of  Shelley's  peculiarities  to  buy  books  wherever  he 
went,  regardless  of  their  volume  or  their  cost.  These  he 
was  wont  to  leave  behind,  when  the  moment  arrived  for 
a  sudden  departure  from  his  temporary  abode;  so  that, 
as  Hogg  remarks,  a  fine  library  might  have  been  formed 
from  the  waifs  and  strays  of  his  collections  scattered  over 
the  three  kingdoms.  This  quiet  course  of  life  was  diver- 
sified by  short  rambles  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Edinburgh, 
and  by  many  episodes  related  with  Hogg's  caustic  humour. 
On  the  whole,  the  impression  left  upon  the  reader's  mind 
is  that  Shelley  and  Harriet  were  very  happy  together  at 
this  period,  and  that  Harriet  was  a  charming  and  sweet- 
tempered  girl,  somewhat  too  much  given  to  the  study  of 
trite  ethics,  and  slightly  deficient  in  sensibility,  but  other- 
wise a  fit  and  soothing  companion  for  the  poet. 

They  were  not,  however,  content  to  remain  in  Edin- 
burgh. Hogg  was  obliged  to  leave  that  city,  in  order  to 
resume  his  law  studies  at  York,  and  Shelley's  programme 
of  life  at  this  period  imperatively  required  the  society  of 
his  chosen  comrade.  It  was  therefore  decided  that  the 
three  friends  should  settle  at  York,  to  remain  "for  ever" 
in  each  other's  company.  They  started  in  a  post-chaise, 
the  good  Harriet  reading  aloud  novels  by  the  now  forgot- 
ten Holcroft  with  untiring  energy,  to  charm  the  tedium 


HL]  LIFE  IN  LONDON  AND  FIRST  MARRIAGE.  63 

of  the  journey.  At  York  more  than  one  cloud  obscured 
their  triune  felicity.  In  the  first  place  they  were  unfort- 
unate in  their  choice  of  lodgings.  In  the  second  Shelley 
found  himself  obliged  to  take  an  expensive  journey  to 
London,  in  the  fruitless  attempt  to  come  to  some  terms 
with  his  father's  lawyer,  Mr.  Whitton.  Mr.  Timothy  Shel- 
ley was  anxious  to  bind  his  erratic  son  down  to  a  settle- 
ment of  the  estates,  which,  on  his  own  death,  would  pass 
into  the  poet's  absolute  control.  He  suggested  numerous 
arrangements;  and  not  long  after  the  date  of  Shelley's 
residence  in  York,  he  proposed  to  make  him  an  immediate 
allowance  of  2000/.,  if  Shelley  would  but  consent  to  entail 
the  land  on  his  heirs  male.  This  offer  was  indignantly 
refused.  Shelley  recognized  the  truth  that  property  is  a 
trust  far  more  than  a  possession,  and  would  do  nothing  to 
tie  up  so  much  command  over  labour,  such  incalculable 
potentialities  of  social  good  or  evil,  for  an  unborn  being  of 
whose  opinions  he  knew  nothing.  This  is  only  one  among 
many  instances  of  his  readiness  to  sacrifice  ease,  comfort, 
nay,  the  bare  necessities  of  life,  for  principle. 

On  his  return  to  York,  Shelley  found  a  new  inmate  es- 
tablished in  their  lodgings.  The  incomparable  Eliza,  who 
was  henceforth  doomed  to  guide  his  destinies  to  an  ob- 
scure catastrophe,  had  arrived  from  London.  Harriet  be- 
lieved her  sister  to  be  a  paragon  of  beauty,  good  sense, 
and  propriety.  She  obeyed  her  elder  sister  like  a  mother ; 
never  questioned  her  wisdom ;  and  foolishly  allowed  her 
to  interpose  between  herself  and  her  husband.  Hogg  had 
been  told  before  her  first  appearance  in  the  friendly  circle 
that  Eliza  was  "beautiful,  exquisitely  beautiful;  an  ele- 
gant figure,  full  of  grace ;  her  face  was  lovely, — dark,  bright 
eyes;  jet-black  hair,  glossy;  a  crop  upon  which  she  be- 
stowed the  care  it  merited, — almost  all  her  time ;  and  she 


M  SHELLEY.  [our. 

was  so  sensible,  so  amiable,  so  good!"  Now  let  us  listen 
to  the  account  he  has  himself  transmitted  of  this  woman, 
whom  certainly  he  did  not  love,  and  to  whom  poor  Shelley 
had  afterwards  but  little  reason  to  feel  gratitude.  "She 
was  older  than  I  had  expected,  and  she  looked  much  older 
than  she  was.  The  lovely  face  was  seamed  with  the  small- 
pox, and  of  a  dead  white,  as  faces  so  much  marked  and 
scarred  commonly  arc ;  as  white  indeed  as  a  mass  of  boil- 
ed rice,  but  of  a  dingy  hue,  like  rice  boiled  in  dirty  water. 
The  eyes  were  dark,  but  dull,  and  without  meaning ;  the 
hair  was  black  and  glossy,  but  coarse ;  and  there  was  the 
admired  crop — a  long  crop,  much  like  the  tail  of  a  horse 
— a  switch  tail.  The  fine  figure  was  meagre,  prim,  and 
constrained.  The  beauty,  the  grace,  and  the  elegance  ex- 
isted, no  doubt,  in  their  utmost  perfection,  but  only  in  the 
imagination  of  her  partial  young  sister.  Her  father,  as 
Harriet  told  me,  was  familiarly  called  'Jew  Westbrook,' 
and  Eliza  greatly  resembled  one  of  the  dark-eyed  daugh- 
ters of  Judah." 

This  portrait  is  drawn,  no  doubt,  with  an  unfriendly 
hand;  and,  in  Hogg's  biography,  each  of  its  sarcastic 
touches  is  sustained  with  merciless  reiteration,  whenever 
the  mention  of  Eliza's  name  is  necessary.  We  hear,  more- 
over, how  she  taught  the  blooming  Harriet  to  fancy  that 
she  was  the  victim  of  her  nerves,  how  she  checked  her 
favourite  studies,  and  how  she  ruled  the  household  by 
continual  reference  to  a  Mrs.  Grundy  of  her  earlier  expe- 
rience. "  What  would  Miss  Warne  say  ?"  was  as  often  on 
her  lips,  if  we  may  credit  Hogg,  as  the  brush  and  comb 
were  in  her  hands. 

The  intrusion  of  Eliza  disturbed  the  harmony  of  Shel- 
ley's circle ;  but  it  is  possible  that  there  were  deeper  rea- 
sons for  the  abrupt  departure  which  he  made  from  York 


in.]  LIFE  IN  LONDON  AND  FIRST  MARRIAGE.  55 

with  his  wife  and  her  sister  in  November,  1811.  One  of 
his  biographers  asserts  with  categorical  precision  that  Shel- 
ley had  good  cause  to  resent  Hogg's  undue  familiarity  with 
Harriet,  and  refers  to  a  curious  composition,  published  by 
Hogg  as  a  continuation  of  Goethe's  Werther,  but  believed 
by  Mr.  McCarthy  to  have  been  a  letter  from  the  poet  to 
his  friend,  in  confirmation  of  his  opinion.1  However  this 
may  be,  the  precipitation  with  which  the  Shelleys  quitted 
York,  scarcely  giving  Hogg  notice  of  their  resolution,  is  in- 
sufficiently accounted  for  in  his  biography. 

The  destination  of  the  travellers  was  Keswick.  Here 
they  engaged  lodgings  for  a  time,  and  then  moved  into  a 
furnished  house.  Probably  Shelley  was  attracted  to  the 
lake  country  as  much  by  the  celebrated  men  who  lived 
there,  as  by  the  beauty  of  its  scenery,  and  the  cheapness 
of  its  accommodation.  He  had  long  entertained  an  ad- 
miration for  Southey's  poetry,  and  was  now  beginning  to 
study  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge.  But  if  he  hoped  for 
much  companionship  with  the  literary  lions  of  the  lakes, 
he  was  disappointed.  Coleridge  was  absent,  and  missed 
making  his  acquaintance — a  circumstance  he  afterwards 
regretted,  saying  that  he  could  have  been  more  useful  to 
the  young  poet  and  metaphysician  than  Southey.  De 
Quincey,  though  he  writes  ambiguously  upon  this  point, 
does  not  seem  to  have  met  Shelley.  Wordsworth  paid 
him  no  attention;  and  though  he  saw  a  good  deal  of 
Southey,  this  intimacy  changed  Shelley's  early  liking  for 
the  man  and  poet  into  absolute  contempt.  It  was  not 
likely  that  the  cold  methodical  student,  the  mechanical 
versifier,  and  the  political  turncoat,  who  had  outlived  all 
his  earlier  illusions,  should  retain  the  good-will  of  such  an 
Ariel  as  Shelley,  in  whose  brain  Queen  Mob  was  already 
1  McCarthy's  Shelley's  Early  Life,  p.  117. 


5ft  SHELLEY.  [CHAF. 

simmering.  Life  at  Kcswick  began  to  be  monotonous. 
It  was,  however,  enlivened  by  a  visit  to  the  Duke  of  Nor- 
folk's seat,  Greystoke.  Shelley  spent  his  last  guinea  on 
the  trip ;  but  though  the  ladies  of  his  family  enjoyed  the 
honour  of  some  days  passed  in  ducal  hospitalities,  the  visit 
was  not  fruitful  of  results.  The  Duke  at  this  time  kindly 
did  his  best,  but  without  success,  to  bring  about  a  recon- 
ciliation between  his  old  friend,  the  member  for  Horsham, 
and  his  rebellious  son. 

Another  important  incident  of  the  Keswick  residence 
•was  Shelley's  letter  to  William  Godwin,  whose  work  on 
Political  Justice  he  had  studied  with  unbounded  admira- 
tion. He  never  spoke  of  this  book  without  respect  in 
after-life,  affirming  that  the  perusal  of  it  had  turned  his 
attention  from  romances  to  questions  of  public  utility. 
The  earliest  letter  dated  to  Godwin  from  Keswick,  January 
3,  1812,  is  in  many  respects  remarkable,  and  not  the  least 
so  as  a  specimen  of  self-delineation.  He  entreats  Godwin 
to  become  his  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend,  urging  that 
"  if  desire  for  universal  happiness  has  any  claim  upon  your 
preference,"  if  persecution  and  injustice  suffered  in  the 
cause  of  philanthropy  and  truth  may  commend  a  young 
man  to  William  Godwin's  regard,  he  is  not  unworthy  of 
this  honour.  We  who  have  learned  to  know  the  flawlew 
purity  of  Shelley's  aspirations,  can  refrain  from  smiling  at 
the  big  generalities  of  this  epistle.  Words  which  to  men 
made  callous  by  long  contact  with  the  world,  ring  false 
and  wake  suspicion,  were  for  Shelley  but  the  natural  ex- 
pression of  his  most  abiding  mood.  Yet  Godwin  may 
be  pardoned  if  he  wished  to  know  more  in  detail  of  the 
youth,  who  sought  to  cast  himself  upon  his  care  in  all  the 
panoply  of  phrases  about  philanthropy  and  universal  hap- 
piness. Shelley's  second  letter  contains  an  extraordinary 


m.]          LIFE  IN  LONDON  AND  FIRST  MARRIAGE  67 

mixture  of  truth  willingly  communicated,  and  of  curioui 
romance,  illustrating  his  tendency  to  colour  facts  with  the 
hallucinations  of  an  ardent  fancy.  Of  his  sincerity  there 
is,  I  think,  no  doubt.  He  really  meant  what  he  wrote ; 
and  yet  we  have  no  reason  to  believe  the  statement  that 
he  was  twice  expelled  from  Eton  for  disseminating  the 
doctrines  of  Political  Justice,  or  that  his  father  wished  to 
drive  him  by  poverty  to  accept  a  commission  in  some  dis- 
tant regiment,  in  order  that  he  might  prosecute  the  Neces- 
sity of  Atheism  in  his  absence,  procure  a  sentence  of  out- 
lawry, and  so  convey  the  family  estates  to  his  younger 
brother.  The  embroidery  of  bare  fact  with  a  tissue  of 
imagination  was  a  peculiarity  of  Shelley's  mind ;  and  this 
letter  may  be  used  as  a  key  for  the  explanation  of  many 
strange  occurrences  in  his  biography.  What  he  tells  God- 
win about  his  want  of  love  for  his  father,  and  his  inabili- 
ty to  learn  from  the  tutors  imposed  upon  him  at  Eton  and 
Oxford,  represents  the  simple  truth.  Only  from  teachers 
chosen  by  himself,  and  recognized  as  his  superiors  by  his 
own  deliberate  judgment,  can  he  receive  instruction.  To 
Godwin  he  resigns  himself  with  the  implicit  confidence  of 
admiration.  Godwin  was  greatly  struck  with  this  letter. 
Indeed,  he  must  have  been  "  or  God  or  beast,"  like  the 
insensible  man  in  Aristotle's  Ethics,  if  he  could  have  re- 
sisted the  devotion  of  so  splendid  and  high-spirited  a 
nature,  poured  forth  in  language  at  once  so  vehement 
and  so  convincingly  sincere.  He  accepted  the  responsi- 
ble post  of  Shelley's  Mentor;  and  thus  began  a  connex- 
ion which  proved  not  only  a  source  of  moral  support  and 
intellectual  guidance  to  the  poet,  but  was  also  destined  to 
end  in  a  closer  personal  tie  between  the  two  illustrious 
men. 

In  his  second  letter  Shelley  told  Godwin  that  he  was 
E 


68  SHELLEY.  [CHAT. 

then  engaged  in  writing  "An  inquiry  into  the  causes  of 
the  failure  of  the  French  Revolution  to  benefit  mankind," 
adding,  "  My  plan  is  that  of  resolving  to  lose  no  opportu- 
nity to  disseminate  truth  and  happiness."  Godwin  sensi- 
bly replied  that  Shelley  was  too  young  to  set  himself  up 
as  a  teacher  and  apostle :  but  his  pupil  did  not  take  the 
hint  A  third  letter  (Jan.  16,  1812)  contains  this  start- 
ling announcement :  "  In  a  few  days  we  set  off  to  Dublin. 
I  do  not  know  exactly  where,  but  a  letter  addressed  to 
Keswick  will  find  me.  Our  journey  has  been  settled  somo 
time.  We  go  principally  to  forward  as  much  as  we  can 
the  Catholic  Emancipation."  In  a  fourth  letter  (Jan.  28, 
1812)  he  informs  Godwin  that  he  has  already  prepared  an 
address  to  the  Catholics  of  Ireland,  and  combats  the  dis- 
suasions of  his  counsellor  with  ingenious  arguments  to 
prove  that  his  contemplated  expedition  can  do  no  harm, 

lay  be  fruitful  of  great  good. 

It  appears  that  for  some  time  past  Shelley  had  devoted 
his  attention  to  Irish  politics.  The  persecution  of  Mr. 
Peter  Finnerty,  an  Irish  journalist  and  editor  of  The  Press 
newspaper,  who  had  been  sentenced  to  eighteen  months' 
imprisonment  in  Lincoln  jail  (between  Feb.  7,  1811,  and 
Aug.  7,  1812)  for  plain  speech  about  Lord  Castlereagh, 
roused  his  hottest  indignation.  He  published  a  poem,  as 
yet  unrecovered,  for  his  benefit ;  the  proceeds  of  the  sale 
amounting,  it  is  said,  to  nearly  one  hundred  pounds.1  The 
young  enthusiast,  who  was  attempting  a  philosophic  study 
of  the  French  Revolution,  whose  heart  was  glowing  with 
universal  philanthropy,  and  who  burned  to  disseminate 
truth  and  happiness,  judged  that  Ireland  would  be  a  fit- 
ting field  for  making  a  first  experiment  in  practical  poli- 
tics. Armed  with  the  MS.  of  his  Address  to  the  Irish 
1  McCarthy,  p.  255. 


in.]          LIFE  IN  LONDON  AND  FIRST  MARRIAGE.  69 

People,1  he  set  sail  with  Harriet  and  Eliza  on  the  3rd  of 
February  from  Whitehaven.  They  touched  the  Isle  of 
Man ;  and  after  a  very  stormy  passage,  which  drove  them 
to  the  north  coast  of  Ireland,  and  forced  them  to  complete 
their  journey  by  land,  the  party  reached  Dublin  travel- 
worn,  but  with  unabated  spirit,  on  the  12th.  Harriet 
shared  her  husband's  philanthropical  enthusiasm.  "  My 
wife,"  wrote  Shelley  to  Godwin,  "  is  the  partner  of  my 
thoughts  and  feelings."  Indeed,  there  is  abundant  proof 
in  both  his  letters  and  hers,  about  this  period,  that  they 
felt  and  worked  together.  Miss  Westbrook,  meantime, 
ruled  the  household ;  "  Eliza  keeps  our  common  stock  of 
money  for  safety  in  some  nook  or  corner  of  her  dress,  but 
we  are  not  dependent  on  her,  although  she  gives  it  out  as 
we  want  it."  This  master-touch  of  unconscious  delinea- 
tion tells  us  all  we  need  to  know  about  the  domestic  party 
now  established  in  7,  Lower  Sackville  Street.  Before  a 
week  had  passed,  the  Address  to  the  Irish  People  had 
been  printed.  Shelley  and  Harriet  immediately  engaged 
their  whole  energies  in  the  task  of  distribution.  It  was 
advertised  for  sale;  but  that  alone  seemed  insufficient. 
On  the  27th  of  February  Shelley  wrote  to  a  friend  in 
England:  "I  have  already  sent  400  of  my  Irish  pam- 
phlets into  the  world,  and  they  have  excited  a  sensation 
of  wonder  in  Dublin.  Eleven  hundred  yet  remain  for  dis- 
tribution. Copies  have  been  sent  to  sixty  public-houses. 
....  Expectation  is  on  the  tiptoe.  I  send  a  man  out  ev- 
ery day  to  distribute  copies,  with  instructions  where  and 
how  to  give  them.  His  account  corresponds  with  the 
multitudes  of  people  who  possess  them.  I  stand  at  the 
balcony  of  our  window  and  watch  till  I  see  a  man  who 
looks  likely.  I  throw  a  book  to  him." 

1  It  was  published  in  Dublin.    See  reprint  in  McCarthy,  p.  179. 


60  SHELLEY.  [nur. 

A  postscript  to  this  letter  lets  us  see  the  propaganda 
from  Harriet's  point  of  view.  "I  am  sure  you  would 
laugh  were  you  to  see  us  give  the  pamphlets.  We  throw 
them  out  of  window,  and  give  them  to  men  that  we  pass 
in  the  streets.  For  myself,  I  am  ready  to  die  of  laughter 
when  it  is  done,  and  Percy  looks  so  grave.  Yesterday  he 
put  one  into  a  woman's  hood  of  a  cloak." 
^The  purpose  of  this  address  was  to  rouse  the  Irish  peo- 
ple to  a  sense  of  their  real  misery,  to  point  out  that  Cath- 
olic Emancipation  and  a  Repeal  of  the  Union  Act  were 
the  only  radical  remedies  for  their  wrongs,  and  to  teach 
them  the  spirit  in  which  they  should  attempt  a  revolution. 
On  the  last  point  Shelley  felt  intensely.  The  whole  ad- 
dress aims  at  the  inculcation  of  a  noble  moral  temper,  tol- 
erant, peaceful,  resolute,  rational,  and  self-denying.  Con- 
sidered as  a  treatise  on  the  principles  which  should  gov- 
ern patriots  during  a  great  national  crisis,  the  document  is 
admirable :  and  if  the  inhabitants  of  Dublin  had  been  a 
population  of  Shelleys,  its  effect  might  have  been  perma- 
nent and  overwhelming.  The  mistake  lay  in  supposing 
that  a  people  whom  the  poet  himself  described  as  "  of 
scarcely  greater  elevation  in  the  scale  of  intellectual  being 
than  the  oyster,"  were  qualified  to  take  the  remedy  of 
their  grievances  into  their  own  hands,  or  were  amenable  to 
such  sound  reasoning  as  he  poured  forth.  He  told  God- 
win that  he  had  "  wilfully  vulgarized  the  language  of  this 
pamphlet,  in  order  to  reduce  the  remarks  it  contains  to 
the  taste  and  comprehension  of  the  Irish  peasantry."  A 
few  extracts  will  enable  the  reader  to  judge  how  far  he 
had  succeeded  in  this  aim.  I  select  such  as  seem  to  me 
most  valuable  for  the  light  they  throw  upon  his  own  opin- 
ions. "All  religions  are  good  which  make  men  good; 
and  the  way  that  a  person  ought  to  prove  that  his  method 


m.}  LIFE  IN  LONDON  AND  FIRST  MARRIAGE.  61 

of  worshipping  God  is  best,  is  for  himself  to  be  better  than 
all  other  men."  "  A  Protestant  is  my  brother,  and  a  Cath- 
olic is  my  brother."  "  Do  not  inquire  if  a  man  be  a  her- 
etic, if  he  be  a  Quaker,  a  Jew,  or  a  heathen ;  but  if  he  be  a 
virtuous  man,  if  he  loves  liberty  and  truth,  if  he  wish  the 
happiness  and  peace  of  human  kind.  If  a  man  be  ever  so 
much  a  believer  and  love  not  these  things,  he  is  a  heart- 
less hypocrite,  a  rascal,  and  a  knave."  "  It  is  not  a  merit 
to  tolerate,  but  it  is  a  crime  to  be  intolerant."  "Anything 
short  of  unlimited  toleration  and  complete  charity  with  all 
men,  on  which  you  will  recollect  that  Jesus  Christ  princi- 
pally insisted,  is  wrong."  "  Be  calm,  mild,  deliberate,  pa- 
tient  Think  and  talk  and  discuss Be  free  and 

be  happy,  but  first  be  wise  and  good."  Proceeding  to  rec- 
ommend the  formation  of  associations,  he  condemns  secret 
and  violent  societies ;  "  Be  fair,  open,  and  you  will  be  ter- 
rible to  your  enemies."  "  Habits  of  SOBRIETY,  REGULAR- 
ITY, and  THOUGHT  must  be  entered  into  and  firmly  re- 
solved upon."  Then  follow  precepts,  which  Shelley  no 
doubt  regarded  as  practical,  for  the  purification  of  private 
morals,  and  the  regulation  of  public  discussion  by  the 
masses  whom  he  elsewhere  recognized  as  "  thousands  hud- 
dled together,  one  mass  of  animated  filth." 

The  foregoing  extracts  show  that  Shelley  was  in  no 
sense  an  inflammatory  demagogue;  however  visionary 
may  have  been  the  hopes  he  indulged,  he  based  those 
hopes  upon  the  still  more  Utopian  foundation  of  a  sudden 
ethical  reform,  and  preached  a  revolution  without  blood- 
shed. We  find  in  them,  moreover,  the  germs  of  The  Re- 
volt of  Islam,  where  the  hero  plays  the  part  successfully 
in  fiction,  which  the  poet  had  attempted  without  appre- 
ciable result  in  practice  at  Dublin.  The  same  principles 
guided  Shelley  at  a  still  later  period.  When  he  wrote  his 


IS  SHELLEY.  [our. 

Masque  of  Anarchy,  he  bade  the  people  of  England  to  a* 
Bemble  by  thousands,  strong  in  the  truth  and  justice  of 
their  cause,  invincible  in  peaceful  opposition  to  force. 

While  he  was  sowing  his  Address  broadcast  in  the 
streets  of  Dublin,  Shelley  was  engaged  in  printing  a  sec- 
ond pamphlet  on  the  subject  of  Catholic  Emancipation. 
It  was  entitled  Proposals  for  an  Association,  and  advo- 
cated in  serious  and  temperate  phrase  the  formation  of  a 
vast  society,  binding  all  the  Catholic  patriots  of  Ireland 
together,  for  the  recovery  of  their  rights.  In  estimating 
Shelley's  political  sagacity,  it  must  be  remembered  that 
Catholic  Emancipation  has  since  his  day  been  brought 
about  by  the  very  measure  he  proposed  and  under  the 
conditions  he  foresaw.  Speaking  of  the  English  Govern- 
ment in  his  Address,  he  used  these  simple  phrases : — "  It 
wants  altering  and  mending.  It  will  be  mended,  and  a 
reform  of  English  Government  will  produce  good  to  the 
Irish."  These  sentences  were  prophetic ;  and  perhaps 
they  are  destined  to  be  even  more  so. 

With  a  view  to  presenting  at  one  glance  Shelley's  posi- 
tion as  a  practical  politician,  I  shall  anticipate  the  course 
of  a  few  years,  and  compare  his  Irish  pamphlets  with  an 
essay  published  in  1817,  under  the  title  of  A  Proposal 
for  putting  Reform  to  the  Vote  throughout  the  Kingdom. 
He  saw  that  the  House  of  Commons  did  not  represent 
the  country ;  and  acting  upon  his  principle  that  govern- 
ment is  the  servant  of  the  governed,  he  sought  means  for 
ascertaining  the  real  will  of  the  nation  with  regard  to  its 
Parliament,  and  for  bringing  the  collective  opinion  of  the 
population  to  bear  upon  its  rulers.  The  plan  proposed 
was  that  a  huge  network  of  committees  should  be  formed, 
and  that  by  their  means  every  individual  man  should  be 
canvassed.  We  find  here  the  same  method  of  advancing 


in.]          LIFE  IN  LONDON  AND  FIRST  MARRIAGE:  68 

reform  by  peaceable  associations  as  in  Ireland.  How 
moderate  were  his  own  opinions  with  regard  to  the 
franchise,  is  proved  by  the  following  sentence : — "  With 
respect  to  Universal  Suffrage,  I  confess  I  consider  its 
adoption,  in  the  present  unprepared  state  of  public  knowl- 
edge and  feeling,  a  measure  fraught  with  peril.  I  think 
that  none  but  those  who  register  their  names  as  paying  a 
certain  small  sum  in  direct  taxes  ought  at  present  to  send 
members  to  Parliament."  As  in  the  case  of  Ireland,  so 
in  that  of  England,  subsequent  events  have  shown  that 
Shelley's  hopes  were  not  exaggerated. 

While  the  Shelleys  were  in  Dublin,  a  meeting  of  the 
Irish  Catholics  was  announced  for  the  evening  of  Feb.  28. 
It  was  held  in  Fishamble  Street  Theatre ;  and  here  Shel- 
ley made  his  debut  as  an  orator.  He  spoke  for  about 
an  hour ;  and  his  speech  was,  on  the  whole,  well  received, 
though  it  raised  some  hisses  at  the  beginning  by  his 
remarks  upon  Roman  Catholicism.  There  is  no  proof 
that  Shelley,  though  eloquent  in  conversation,  was  a  pow- 
erful public  speaker.  The  somewhat  conflicting  accounts 
we  have  received  of  this,  his  maiden  effort,  tend  to  the 
impression  that  he  failed  to  carry  his  audience  with  him. 
The  dissemination  of  his  pamphlets  had,  however,  raised 
considerable  interest  in  his  favour ;  and  he  was  welcomed 
by  the  press  as  an  Englishman  of  birth  and  fortune,  who 
wished  well  to  the  Irish  cause.  His  youth  told  somewhat 
against  him.  It  was  difficult  to  take  the  strong  words  of 
the  beardless  boy  at  their  real  value;  and  as  though  to 
aggravate  this  drawback,  his  Irish  servant,  Daniel  Hill,  an 
efficient  agent  in  the  dissemination  of  the  Address,  af- 
firmed that  his  master  was  fifteen — four  years  less  than 
his  real  age. 

In   Dublin   Shelley  made   acquaintance   with  Curran, 


64  SHELLEY.  [CHAP. 

whose  jokes  and  dirty  stories  he  could  not  appreciate, 
and  with  a  Mr.  Lawless,  who  began  a  history  of  the  Irish 
people  in  concert  with  the  young  philosopher.  We  also 
obtain,  from  one  of  Harriet's  letters,  a  somewhat  humor- 
ous peep  at  another  of  their  friends,  a  patriotic  Mrs. 
Nugent,  who  supported  herself  by  working  in  a  furrier's 
shop,  and  who  is  described  as  "  sitting  in  the  room  now, 
and  talking  to  Percy  about  Virtue."  After  less  than  two 
months'  experience  of  his  Irish  propaganda,  Shelley  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  he  "  had  done  all  that  he  could." 
The  population  of  Dublin  had  not  risen  to  the  appeal  of 
their  Laon  with  the  rapidity  he  hoped  for;  and  accord- 
ingly upon  the  7th  of  April  he  once  more  embarked  with 
his  family  for  Holyhead.  In  after-days  he  used  to  hint 
that  the  police  had  given  him  warning  that  it  would  be 
well  for  him  to  leave  Dublin ;  but,  though  the  danger  of 
a  prosecution  was  not  wholly  visionary,  this  intimation 
does  not  seem  to  have  been  made.  Before  he  quitted 
Ireland,  however,  he  despatched  a  box  containing  the  re- 
maining copies  of  his  Address  and  Proposals,  together 
with  the  recently  printed  edition  of  another  manifesto, 
called  a  Declaration  of  Rights,  to  a  friend  in  Sussex. 
This  box  was  delayed  at  the  Holyhead  custom-house,  and 
opened.  Its  contents  gave  serious  anxiety  to  the  Sur- 
veyor of  Customs,  who  communicated  the  astonishing  dis- 
covery through  the  proper  official  channels  to  the  govern- 
ment. After  some  correspondence,  the  authorities  decided 
to  take  no  steps  against  Shelley,  and  the  box  was  for- 
warded to  its  destination. 

The  friend  in  question  was  a  Miss  Eliza  Kitchener,  of 
Hurstpierpoint,  who  kept  a  sort  of  school,  and  who  had 
attracted  Shelley's  favourable  notice  by  her  advanced  po- 
litical and  religious  opinions.  He  does  not  seem  to  hare 


iu.J           LIFE  IN  LONDON  AND  FIRST  MARRIAGE.  65 

made  her  personal  acquaintance;  but  some  of  his  most 
interesting  letters  from  Ireland  are  addressed  to  her.  How 
recklessly  he  entered  into  serious  entanglements  with  peo- 
ple whom  he  had  not  learned  to  know,  may  be  gathered 
from  these  extracts : — "  We  will  meet  you  in  Wales,  and 
never  part  again.  It  will  not  do.  In  compliance  with 
Harriet's  earnest  solicitations,  I  entreated  you  instantly  to 
come  and  join  our  circle,  resign  your  school,  all,  everything 
for  us  and  the  Irish  cause."  "  I  ought  to  count  myself 
a  favoured  mortal  with  such  a  wife  and  such  a  friend." 
Harriet  addressed  this  lady  as  "  Portia ;"  and  it  is  an  un- 
doubted fact  that  soon  after  their  return  to  England,  Miss 
Hitchener  formed  one  of  their  permanent  family  circle. 
Her  entrance  into  it  and  her  exit  from  it  at  no  very  dis- 
tant period  are,  however,  both  obscure.  Before  long  she 
acquired  another  name  than  Portia  in  the  Shelley  house- 
hold, and  now  she  is  better  known  to  fame  as  the  "Brown 
Demon."  Eliza  Westbrook  took  a  strong  dislike  to  her; 
Harriet  followed  suit;  and  Shelley  himself  found  that  he 
had  liked  her  better  at  a  distance  than  in  close  companion- 
ship. She  had  at  last  to  be  bought  off  or  bribed  to  leave. 
The  scene  now  shifts  with  bewildering  frequency ;  nor 
is  it  easy  to  trace  the  Shelleys  in  their  rapid  flight. 
About  the  21st  of  April,  they  settled  for  a  short  time  at 
Nantgwilt,  near  Rhayader,  in  North  Wales.  Ere  long  we 
find  them  at  Lynmouth,  on  the  Somersetshire  coast.  Here 
Shelley  continued  his  political  propaganda,  by  circulating 
the  Declaration  of  Rights,  whereof  mention  has  already 
been  made.  It  was,  as  Mr.  W.  M.  Rossetti  first  pointed 
out,  a  manifesto  concerning  the  ends  of  government  and 
the  rights  of  man, — framed  in  imitation  of  two  similar 
French  Revolutionary  documents,  issued  by  the  Constit- 
uent Assembly  in  August,  1789,  and  by  Robespierre  in 


««  SHELLEY.  [our. 

April,  1793.'  Shelley  used  to  seal  this  pamphlet  in  bot- 
tles and  set  it  afloat  upon  the  sea,  hoping  perhaps  that 
after  this  wise  it  would  traverse  St.  George's  Channel  and 
reach  the  sacred  soil  of  Erin.  He  also  employed  his  ser- 
vant, Daniel  Hill,  to  distribute  it  among  the  Somersetshire 
^  farmers.  On  the  19th  of  August  this  man  was  arrested 
in  the  streets  of  Barnstaple,  and  sentenced  to  six  months' 
imprisonment  for  uttering  a  seditious  pamphlet ;  and  the 
remaining  copies  of  the  Declaration  of  Rights  were  de- 
stroyed. In  strong  contrast  with  the  puerility  of  these 
proceedings,  is  the  grave  and  lofty  Letter  to  Lord  Ellen- 
borough,  composed  at  Lynmouth,  and  printed  at  Barnsta- 
ple.* A  printer,  named  D.  J.  Eaton,  had  recently  been  sen- 
tenced to  imprisonment  by  his  Lordship  for  publishing 
the  Third  Part  of  Paine's  Age  of  Reason.  Shelley's  epis- 
tle is  an  eloquent  argument  in  favour  of  toleration  and 
the  freedom  of  the  intellect,  carrying  the  matter  beyond 
the  instance  of  legal  tyranny  which  occasioned  its  compo- 
sition, and  treating  it  with  philosophic,  if  impassioned  se- 
riousness. 

An  extract  from  this  composition  will  serve  to  show  his 
power  of  handling  weighty  English  prose,  while  yet  a 
youth  of  hardly  twenty.  I  have  chosen  a  passage  bearing 
on  his  theological  opinions : — 

r  Moral  qualities  are  such  as  only  a  human  being  can  possess.  To 
attribute  them  to  the  Spirit  of  the  Universe,  or  to  suppose  that  it  is 
capable  of  altering  them,  is  to  degrade  God  into  man,  and  to  annex 
to  this  incomprehensible  Being  qualities  incompatible  with  any  pos- 
sible definition  of  his  nature. 

It  may  be  here  objected :  Ought  not  the  Creator  to  possess  the 

1  Reprinted  in  McCarthy,  p.  324. 

9  Reprinted  in  Lady  Shelley's  Memorials,  p.  29. 


in.]          LIFE  IN  LONDON  AND  FIRST  MARRIAGE.  67 

perfections  of  the  creature  ?  No.  To  attribute  to  God  the  moral 
qualities  of  man,  is  to  suppose  him  susceptible  of  passions,  which, 
arising  out  of  corporeal  organization,  it  is  plain  that  a  pure  spirit 
cannot  possess.  .  .  .  But  even  suppose,  with  the  vulgar,  that  God  is 
a  venerable  old  man,  seated  on  a  throne  of  clouds,  his  breast  the 
theatre  of  various  passions,  analogous  to  those  of  humanity,  his  will 
changeable  and  uncertain  as  that  of  an  earthly  king ;  still,  goodness 
and  justice  are  qualities  seldom  nominally  denied  him,  and  it  will  be 
admitted  that  he  disapproves  of  any  action  incompatible  with  those 
qualities.  Persecution  for  opinion  is  unjust.  With  what  consistency, 
then,  can  the  worshippers  of  a  Deity  whose  benevolence  they  boast, 
embitter  the  existence  of  their  fellow-being,  because  his  ideas  of  that 
Deity  are  different  from  those  which  they  entertain  ?  Alas !  there  is 
no  consistency  in  those  persecutors  who  worship  a  benevolent  Dei- 
ty ;  those  who  worship  a  demon  would  alone  act  consonantly  to  these 
principles  by  imprisoning  and  torturing  in  his  name. 

Shelley  had  more  than  once  urged  Godwin  and  his 
family  to  visit  him.  The  sage  of  Skinner  Street  thought 
that  now  was  a  convenient  season.  Accordingly  he  left 
London,  and  travelled  by  coach  to  Lynmouth,  where  he 
found  that  the  Shelleys  had  flitted  a  few  days  previously 
without  giving  any  notice.  This  fruitless  journey  of  the 
poet's  Mentor  is  humorously  described  by  Hogg,  as  well 
as  one  undertaken  by  himself  in  the  following  year  to 
Dublin  with  a  similar  result.  The  Shelleys  were  now  es- 
tablished at  Tan-yr-allt,  near  Tremadoc,  in  North  Wales, 
on  an  estate  belonging  to  Mr.  W.  A.  Madocks,  M.P.  for 
Boston.  This  gentleman  had  reclaimed  a  considerable 
extent  of  marshy  ground  from  the  sea,  and  protected  it 
with  an  embankment.  Shelley,  whose  interest  in  the  poor 
people  around  him  was  always  keen  and  practical,  lost  no 
time  in  making  their  acquaintance  at  Tremadoc.  The 
work  of  utility  carried  out  by  his  landlord  aroused  his 
enthusiastic  admiration;  and  when  the  embankment  was 
emperilled  by  a  heavy  sea,  he  got  up  a  subscription  for  its 


68  SHELLEY.  [ciur. 

preservation.  Heading  the  list  with  500/.,  how  raised,  of 
whether  paid,  we  know  not,  he  endeavoured  to  extract 
similar  sums  from  the  neighbouring  gentry,  and  even  ran 
up  with  Ilarrict  to  London  to  use  his  influence  for  the 
same  purpose  with  the  Duke  of  Norfolk.  On  this  occasion 
he  made  the  personal  acquaintance  of  the  Godwin  family. 

Life  at  Tanyrallt  was  smooth  and  studious,  except  for 
the  diversion  caused  by  the  peril  to  the  embankment 
We  hear  of  Harriet  continuing  her  Latin  studios,  reading 
Odes  of  Horace,  and  projecting  an  epistle  in  that  language 
to  Hogg.  Shelley,  as  usual,  collected  many  books  around 
him.  There  are  letters  extant  in  which  he  writes  to  Lon- 
don for  Spinoza  and  Kant,  Plato,  and  the  works  of  the 
chief  Greek  historians.  It  appears  that  at  this  period,  un- 
der the  influence  of  Godwin,  he  attempted  to  conquer  a 
strong  natural  dislike  for  history.  "  I  am  determined  to 
apply  myself  to  a  study  which  is  hateful  and  disgusting  to 
my  very  soul,  but  which  is  above  all  studies  necessary  for 
him  who  would  be  listened  to  as  a  mender  of  antiquated 
abuses, — I  mean,  that  record  of  crimes  and  miseries — 
history."  Although  he  may  have  made  an  effort  to  apply 
himself  to  historical  reading,  he  was  not  successful.  His 
true  bias  inclined  him  to  metaphysics  colored  by  a  glow- 
ing fancy,  and  to  poetry  penetrated  with  speculative  en- 
thusiasm. In  the  historic  sense  he  was  deficient ;  and 
when  he  made  a  serious  effort  at  a  later  period  to  com- 
pose a  tragedy  upon  the  death  of  Charles  I.,  this  work  was 
taken  up  with  reluctance,  continued  with  effort,  and  finally 
abandoned. 

In  the  same  letters  he  speaks  about  a  collection  of  short 
poems  on  which  he  was  engaged,  and  makes  frequent  al- 
lusions to  Queen  Mab.  It  appears  from  his  own  asser- 
tion, and  from  Medwin's  biography,  that  a  poem  on  Queen 


m.J          LIFE  IN  LONDON  AND  FIRST  MARRIAGE.  69 

Mab  had  been  projected  and  partially  written  by  him  at 
the  early  age  of  eighteen.  But  it  was  not  taken  seriously 
in  hand  until  the  spring  of  1812  ;  nor  was  it  finished  and 
printed  before  1813.  The  first  impression  was  a  private 
issue  of  250  copies,  on  fine  paper,  which  Shelley  distributed 
to  people  whom  he  wished  to  influence.  It  was  pirated 
soon  after  its  appearance,  and  again  in  1821  it  was  given 
to  the  public  by  a  bookseller  named  Clarke.  Against  the 
latter  republication  Shelley  energetically  protested,  dis- 
claiming in  a  letter  addressed  to  The  Examiner,  from  Pisa, 
June  22, 1821,  any  interest  in  a  production  which  he  had 
not  even  seen  for  several  years.  "  I  doubt  not  but  that 
it  is  perfectly  worthless  in  point  of  literary  composition ; 
and  that  in  all  that  concerns  moral  and  political  specula- 
tion, as  well  as  in  the  subtler  discriminations  of  meta- 
physical and  religious  doctrine,  it  is  still  more  crude  and 
immature.  I  am  a  devoted  enemy  to  religious,  political, 
and  domestic  oppression ;  and  I  regret  this  publication, 
not  so  much  from  literary  vanity  as  because  I  fear  it  is 
better  fitted  to  injure  than  to  serve  the  sacred  cause  of 
freedom."  This  judgment  is  undoubtedly  severe;  but, 
though  exaggerated  in  its  condemnation,  it,  like  all  Shel- 
ley's criticisms  on  his  own  works,  expresses  the  truth. 
We  cannot  include  Queen  Mab,  in  spite  of  its  sonorous 
rhetoric  and  fervid  declamation,  in  the  canon  of  his  mas- 
terpieces. It  had  a  succes  de  scandale  on  its  first  appear- 
ance, and  fatally  injured  Shelley's  reputation.  As  a  work 
of  art  it  lacks  maturity  and  permanent  vitality. 

The  Shelleys  were  suddenly  driven  away  from  Tanyr- 
allt  by  a  mysterious  occurrence,  of  which  no  satisfactory 
explanation  has  yet  been  given.  According  to  letters 
written  by  himself  and  Harriet  soon  after  the  event,  and 
confirmed  by  the  testimony  of  Eliza,  Shelley  was  twice 


70  SHELLEY.  [CHAT. 

attacked  upon  the  night  of  Feb.  24  by  an  armed  ruffian, 
with  whom  he  struggled  in  a  hand-to-hand  combat.  Pis- 
tols were  fired  and  windows  broken,  and  Shelley's  night- 
gown was  shot  through  :  but  the  assassin  made  his  escape 
from  the  house  without  bein<*  recognized.  His  motive 
and  his  personality  still  remain  matters  of  conjecture. 
Whether  the  whole  affair  was  a  figment  of  Shelly's  brain, 
rendered  more  than  usually  susceptible  by  laudanum  taken 
to  assuage  intense  physical  pain ;  whether  it  was  a  perilous 
hoax  played  upon  him  by  the  Irish  servant,  Daniel  Hill ; 
or  whether,  as  he  himself  surmised,  the  crime  was  insti- 
gated by  an  unfriendly  neighbour,  it  is  impossible  to  say. 
Strange  adventures  of  this  kind,  blending  fact  and  fancy 
in  a  now  inextricable  tangle,  are  of  no  unfrequent  occur- 
rence in  Shelley's  biography.  In  estimating  the  relative 
proportions  of  the  two  factors  in  this  case,  it  must  be 
borne  in  mind,  on  the  one  hand,  that  no  one  but  Shelley, 
who  was  alone  in  the  parlour,  and  who  for  some  unexplain- 
ed reason  had  loaded  his  pistols  on  the  evening  before  the 
alleged  assault,  professed  to  have  seen  the  villain  ;  and,  on 
the  other,  that  the  details  furnished  by  Harriet,  and  con- 
firmed at  a  subsequent  period  by  so  hostile  a  witness  as 
Eliza,  are  too  circumstantial  to  be  lightly  set  aside. 

On  the  whole  it  appears  most  probable  that  Shelley  on 
this  night  was  the  subject  of  a  powerful  hallucination. 
The  theory  of  his  enemies  at  Tanyrallt,  that  the  story  had 
been  invented  to  facilitate  his  escape  from  the  neighbour- 
hood without  paying  his  bills,  may  be  dismissed.  But  no 
investigation  on  the  spot  could  throw  any  clear  light  on 
the  circumstance,  and  Shelley's  friends,  Hogg,  Peacock, 
and  Mr.  Madocks,  concurred  in  regarding  the  affair  as  a 
delusion. 

There  was  no  money  in  the  common  purse  of  the  Shel- 


m.]          LIFE  IN  LONDON  AND  FIRST  MARRIAGE.  71 

leys  at  this  moment.  In  their  distress  they  applied  to  Mr. 
T.  Hookham,  a  London  publisher,  who  sent  them  enough 
to  carry  them  across  the  Irish  Channel.  After  a  short 
residence  in  35,  Cuffe  Street,  Dublin,  and  a  flying  visit  to 
Killarney,  they  returned  to  London.  Eliza,  for  some  rea- 
son as  unexplained  as  the  whole  episode  of  this  second 
visit  to  Ireland,  was  left  behind  for  a  short  season.  The 
flight  from  Tanyrallt  closes  the  first  important  period  of 
Shelley's  life ;  and  his  settlement  in  London  marks  the 
beginning  of  another,  fruitful  of  the  gravest  consequences 
and  decisive  of  his  future. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

SECOND    RESIDENCE    IN   LONDON,  AND    SEPARATION    FROM 
HARRIET. 

EARLY  in  May  the  Shelleys  arrived  in  London,  where  they 
were  soon  joined  by  Eliza,  from  whose  increasingly  irk- 
some companionship  the  poet  had  recently  enjoyed  a  few 
weeks'  respite.  After  living  for  a  short  while  in  hotels, 
they  took  lodgings  in  Half  Moon  Street.  The  house  had 
a  projecting  window,  where  the  poet  loved  to  sit  with  book 
in  hand,  and  catch,  according  to  his  custom,  the  maximum 
of  sunlight  granted  by  a  chary  English  summer.  "He 
wanted,"  said  one  of  his  female  admirers,  "  only  a  pan  of 
clear  water  and  a  fresh  turf  to  look  like  some  young 
lady's  lark,  hanging  outside  for  air  and  song."  Accord- 
ing to  Hogg,  this  period  of  London  life  was  a  pleasant 
and  tranquil  episode  in  Shelley's  troubled  career.  His 
room  was  full  of  books,  among  which  works  of  German 
metaphysics  occupied  a  prominent  place,  though  they  were 
not  deeply  studied.  He  was  now  learning  Italian,  and 
made  his  first  acquaintance  with  Tasso,  Ariosto,  and  Pe- 
trarch. 

The  habits  of  the  household  were,  to  say  the  least,  ir- 
regular; for  Shelley  took  no  thought  of  sublunary  mat- 
ters, and  Harriet  was  an  indifferent  housekeeper.  Dinner 
seems  to  have  come  to  them  less  by  forethought  than  by 


IT.]  SECOND  RESIDENCE  IN  LONDON.  78 

the  operation  of  divine  chance;  and  when  there  was  no 
meat  provided  for  the  entertainment  of  casual  guests,  the 
table  was  supplied  with  buns,  procured  by  Shelley  from 
the  nearest  pastry-cook.  He  had  already  abjured  animal 
food  and  alcohol ;  and  his  favourite  diet  consisted  of  pulse 
or  bread,  which  he  ate  dry  with  water,  or  made  into  pa- 
nada. Hogg  relates  how,  when  he  was  walking  in  the 
streets  and  felt  hungry,  he  would  dive  into  a  baker's  shop 
and  emerge  with  a  loaf  tucked  under  his  arm.  This  he 
consumed  as  he  went  along,  very  often  reading  at  the  same 
time,  and  dodging  the  foot-passengers  with  the  rapidity  of 
movement  which  distinguished  him.  He  could  not  com- 
prehend how  any  man  should  want  more  than  bread.  "  I 
have  dropped  a  word,  a  hint,"  says  Hogg,  "  about  a  pud- 
ding ;  a  pudding,  Bysshe  said  dogmatically,  is  a  preju- 
dice." This  indifference  to  diet  was  highly  characteristic 
of  Shelley.  During  the  last  years  of  his  life,  even  when 
he  was  suffering  from  the  frequent  attacks  of  a  painful 
disorder,  he  took  no  heed  of  food ;  and  his  friend,  Tre- 
lawny,  attributes  the  derangement  of  his  health,  in  a  great 
measure,  to  this  carelessness.  Mrs.  Shelley  used  to  send 
him  something  to  eat  into  the  room  where  he  habitually 
studied ;  but  the  plate  frequently  remained  untouched  for 
hours  upon  a  bookshelf,  and  at  the  end  of  the  day  he 
might  be  heard  asking,  "  Mary,  have  I  dined ?"  His  dress 
was  no  less  simple  than  his  diet.  Hogg  says  that  he  never 
saw  him  in  a  great  coat,  and  that  his  collar  was  unbut- 
toned to  let  the  air  play  freely  on  his  throat.  "  In  the 
street  or  road  he  reluctantly  wore  a  hat;  but  in  fields 
and  gardens,  his  little  round  head  had  no  other  covering 
than  his  long,  wild,  ragged  locks."  Shelley's  head,  as  is 
well  known,  was  remarkably  small  and  round ;  he  used  to 
plunge  it  several  times  a  day  in  cold  water,  and  expose  it 
F  4* 


74  SHELLEY.  [CHAP. 

recklessly  to  the  intcnsost  heat  of  fire  or  sun.  Mrs.  Shel- 
ley relates  that  a  great  part  of  the  Cenci  was  written  on 
their  house-roof  near  Leghorn,  where  Shelley  lay  exposed 
to  the  unmitigated  ardour  of  Italian  summer  heat;  and 
Hogg  describes  him  reading  Homer  by  a  blazing  fire-light, 
or  roasting  his  skull  upon  the  hearth-rug  by  the  hour. 

These  personal  details  cannot  be  omitted  by  the  biogra- 
pher of  such  a  man  as  Shelley.  He  was  an  elemental  and 
primeval  creature,  as  little  subject  to  the  laws  of  custom 
in  his  habits  as  in  his  modes  of  thought,  living  literally 
as  the  spirit  moved  him,  with  a  natural  nonchalance  that 
has  perhaps  been  never  surpassed.  To  time  and  place  he 
was  equally  indifferent,  and  could  not  be  got  to  remember 
his  engagements.  "  He  took  strange  caprices,  unfounded 
frights  and  dislikes,  vain  apprehensions  and  panic  terrors, 
and  therefore  lie  absented  himself  from  formal  and  sa- 
cred engagements.  He  was  unconscious  and  oblivious  of 
times,  places,  persons,  and  seasons ;  and  falling  into  some 
poetic  vision,  some  day-dream,  he  quickly  and  completely 
forgot  all  that  he  had  repeatedly  and  solemnly  promised ; 
or  he  ran  away  after  some  object  of  imaginary  urgency 
and  importance,  which  suddenly  came  into  his  head,  set* 
ting  off  in  vain  pursuit  of  it,  he  knew  not  whither.  When 
he  was  caught,  brought  up  in  custody,  and  turned  over  to 
the  ladies,  with,  Behold,  your  King !  to  be  caressed,  court- 
ed, admired,  and  flattered,  the  king  of  beauty  and  fancy 
would  too  commonly  bolt;  slip  away,  steal  out,  creep  off; 
unobserved  and  almost  magically  he  vanished;  thus  mys- 
teriously depriving  his  fair  subjects  of  his  much-coveted, 
long  looked-for  company."  If  he  had  been  fairly  caged 
and  found  himself  in  congenial  company,  he  let  time  pass 
unheeded,  sitting  up  all  night  to  talk,  and  chaining  his  au- 
dience by  the  spell  of  his  unrivalled  eloquence ;  for  won- 


IT.]  SECOND  RESIDENCE  IN  LONDON.  75 

derful  as  was  his  poetry,  those  who  enjoyed  the  privilege 
of  converse  with  him,  judged  it  even  more  attractive.  "He 
was  commonly  most  communicative,  unreserved,  and  elo- 
quent, and  enthusiastic,  when  those  around  him  were  in- 
clining to  yield  to  the  influence  of  sleep,  or  rather  at  the 
hour  when  they  would  have  been  disposed  to  seek  their 
chambers,  but  for  the  bewitching  charms  of  his  discourse." 

From  Half  Moon  Street  the  Shelleys  moved  into  a  house 
in  Pimlico;  and  it  was  here,  according  to  Hogg,  or  at 
Cooke's  Hotel  in  Dover  Street  according  to  other  accounts, 
that  Shelley's  first  child,  lanthe  Eliza,  was  born  about  the 
end  of  June,  1813.  Harriet  did  not  take  much  to  her  lit- 
tle girl,  and  gave  her  over  to  a  wet-nurse,  for  whom  Shel- 
ley conceived  a  great  dislike.  That  a  mother  should  not 
nurse  her  own  baby  was  no  doubt  contrary  to  his  princi- 
ples ;  and  the  double  presence  of  the  servant  and  Eliza, 
whom  he  now  most  cordially  detested,  made  his  home  un- 
comfortable. We  have  it  on  excellent  authority,  that  of 
Mr.  Peacock,  that  he  "  was  extremely  fond  of  it  (the  child), 
and  would  walk  up  and  down  a  room  with  it  in  his  arms 
for  a  long  time  together,  singing  to  it  a  song  of  his  own 
making,  which  ran  on  the  repetition  of  a  word  of  his  own 
coining.  His  song  was  Yahmani,  Yahmani,  Yahmani, 
Yahmani."  To  the  want  of  sympathy  between  the  father 
and  the  mother  in  this  matter  of  lanthe,  Mr.  Peacock  is 
inclined  to  attribute  the  beginning  of  troubles  in  the  Shel- 
ley household.  There  is,  indeed,  no  doubt  that  the  reve- 
lation of  Harriet's  maternal  coldness  must  have  been  ex- 
tremely painful  to  her  husband;  and  how  far  she  carried 
her  insensibility,  may  be  gathered  from  a  story  told  by 
Hogg  about  her  conduct  during  an  operation  performed 
upon  the  child. 

During  this  period  of  his  sojourn  in  London,  Shelley 


7H  S11ELLEY.  [CHAT. 

was  again  in  some  pecuniary  difficulties.  Yet  be  indulged 
Harriet's  vanity  by  setting  up  a  carriage,  in  which  they 
afterwards  took  a  hurried  journey  to  Edinburgh  and  back. 
He  narrowly  escaped  a  debtor's  prison  through  this  act  of 
extravagance,  and  by  a  somewhat  ludicrous  mistake  Hogg 
was  arrested  for  the  debt  due  to  the  coach-maker.  His  ac- 
quaintances were  few  and  scattered,  and  he  saw  nothing  of 
his  family.  Gradually,  however,  he  seems  to  have  become 
a  kind  of  prophet  in  a  coterie  of  learned  ladies.  The 
views  he  had  propounded  in  Queen  Mab,  his  passionate  be- 
lief in  the  perfectibility  of  man,  his  vegetarian  doctrines, 
and  his  readiness  to  adopt  any  new  nostrum  for  the  amel- 
ioration of  the  race,  endeared  him  to  all  manners  of  strange 
people ;  nor  was  he  deterred  by  aristocratic  prejudices  from 
frequenting  society  which  proved  extremely  uncongenial 
to  Hogg,  and  of  which  we  have  accordingly  some  caustic 
sketches  from  his  pen.  His  chief  friends  were  a  Mrs. 
Boinville,  for  whom  he  conceived  an  enthusiastic  admira- 
tion, and  her  daughter  Cornelia,  married  to  a  vegetarian, 
Mr.  Newton.  In  order  to  be  near  them  he  had  moved 
to  Pimlico;  and  his  next  move,  from  London  to  a  cot- 
tage named  High  Elms,  at  Bracknell,  in  Berkshire,  had  the 
same  object.  With  Godwin  and  his  family  he  was  also 
on  terms  of  familiar  intercourse.  Under  the  philosopher's 
roof  in  Skinner  Street  there  was  now  gathered  a  group  of 
miscellaneous  inmates — Fanny  Imlay,  the  daughter  of  his 
first  wife,  Mary  Wollstonecraft ;  Mary,  his  own  daughter 
by  the  same  marriage ;  his  second  wife,  and  her  two  chil- 
dren, Claire  and  Charles  Clairmont,  the  offspring  of  a  pre- 
vious union.  From  this  connexion  with  the  Godwin  house- 
hold events  of  the  gravest  importance  in  the  future  were 
destined  to  arise,  and  already  it  appears  that  Fanny  Im- 
lay had  begun  to  look  with  perilous  approval  on  the  fasci- 


IT.]  SECOND  RESIDENCE  IN  LONDON.  77 

nating  poet.  Hogg  and  Mr.  Peacock,  the  well-known  nov- 
elist, described  by  Mrs.  Newton  as  "  a  cold  scholar,  who, 
I  think,  has  neither  taste  nor  feeling,"  were  his  only  in- 
timates. 

Mrs.  Newton's  unfair  judgment  of  Mr.  Peacock  marks  a 
discord  between  the  two  chief  elements  of  Shelley's  pres- 
ent society ;  and  indeed  it  will  appear  to  a  careful  student 
of  his  biography  that  Hogg,  Peacock,  and  Harriet,  now 
stood  somewhat  by  themselves  and  aloof  from  the  inner 
circle  of  his  associates.  If  we  regard  the  Shelleys  as  the 
centre  of  an  extended  line,  we  shall  find  the  Westbrook 
family  at  one  end,  the  Boinville  family  at  the  other,  with 
Hogg  and  Peacock  somewhere  in  the  middle.  Harriet 
was  naturally  drawn  to  the  Westbrook  extremity,  and  Shel- 
ley to  the  Boinville.  Peacock  had  no  affinity  for  either, 
but  a  sincere  regard  for  Harriet  as  well  as  for  her  hus- 
band ;  while  Hogg  was  in  much  the  same  position,  except 
that  he  had  made  friends  with  Mrs.  Newton.  The  God- 
wins, of  great  importance  to  Shelley  himself,  exercised  their 
influence  at  a  distance  from  the  rest.  Frequent  change 
from  Bracknell  to  London  and  back  again,  varied  by  the 
flying  journey  to  Edinburgh,  and  a  last  visit  paid  in  strict- 
est secrecy  to  his  mother  and  sisters,  at  Field  Place,  of 
which  a  very  interesting  record  is  left  in  the  narrative  of 
Mr.  Kennedy,  occupied  the  interval  between  July,  1813, 
and  March,  1814.  The  period  was  not  productive  of  lit- 
erary masterpieces.  We  only  hear  of  a  Refutation  of 
Deism,  a  dialogue  between  Eusebes  and  Theosophus,  which 
attacked  all  forms  of  Theistic  belief. 

Since  we  are  now  approaching  the  gravest  crisis  in  Shel- 
ley's life,  it  behoves  us  to  be  more  than  usually  careful  in 
considering  his  circumstances  at  this  epoch.  His  home 
had  become  cold  and  dull.  Harriet  did  not  love  her  child, 


78  SHELLEY.  [OAT.  a 

and  spent  her  time  in  a  great  measure  with  her  Mount 
Street  relations.  Eliza  was  a  source  of  continual  irrita- 
tion, and  the  Westbrook  family  did  its  best,  by  interfer- 
ence and  suggestion,  to  refrigerate  the  poet's  feelings  for 
his  wife.  On  the  other  hand  he  found  among  the  Boin- 
ville  set  exactly  that  high-flown,  enthusiastic,  sentimental 
atmosphere  which  suited  his  idealizing  temper.  Two  ex- 
tracts from  a  letter  written  to  Hogg  upon  the  16th  of 
March,  1814,  speak  more  eloquently  than  any  analysis,  and 
will  place  before  the  reader  the  antagonism  which  had 
sprung  up  in  Shelley's  mind  between  his  own  home  and 
the  circle  of  his  new  friends : — "  I  have  been  staying  with 

Mrs.  B for  the  last  month;  I  have  escaped,  in  the 

society  of  all  that  philosophy  and  friendship  combine, 
from  the  dismaying  solitude  of  myself.  They  have  re- 
vived in  my  heart  the  expiring  flame  of  life.  I  have  felt 
myself  translated  to  a  paradise,  which  has  nothing  of  mor- 
tality but  its  transitoriness ;  my  heart  sickens  at  the  view 
of  that  necessity,  which  will  quickly  divide  me  from  the 
delightful  tranquillity  of  this  happy  home, — for  it  has  be- 
come my  home.  The  trees,  the  bridge,  the  minutest  ob- 
jects, have  already  a  place  in  my  affections." 

"  Eliza  is  still  with  us — not  here ! — but  will  be  with  me 
when  the  infinite  malice  of  destiny  forces  me  to  depart. 
I  am  now  but  little  inclined  to  contest  this  point.  I  cer- 
tainly hate  her  with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  It  is  a  sight 
which  awakens  an  inexpressible  sensation  of  disgust  and 
horror,  to  see  her  caress  my  poor  little  lanthe,  in  whom  I 
may  hereafter  find  the  consolation  of  sympathy.  I  some- 
times feel  faint  with  the  fatigue  of  checking  the  over- 
flowings of  my  unbounded  abhorrence  for  this  miserable 
wretch.  But  she  is  no  more  than  a  blind  and  loathsome 
worm,  that  cannot  see  to  sting." 


IT.]  SECOND  RESIDENCE  IN  LONDON.  79 

While  divided  in  this  way  between  a  home  which  had 
become  distasteful  to  him,  and  a  house  where  he  found 
scope  for  his  most  romantic  outpourings  of  sensibility, 
Shelley  fell  suddenly  and  passionately  in  love  with  God- 
win's daughter,  Mary.  Peacock,  who  lived  in  close  inti- 
macy with  him  at  this  period,  must  deliver  his  testimony 
as  to  the  overwhelming  nature  of  the  new  attachment : — 
"Nothing  that  I  ever  read  in  tale  or  history  could  pre- 
sent a  more  striking  image  of  a  sudden,  violent,  irresistible, 
uncontrollable  passion,  than  that  under  which  I  found  him 
labouring  when,  at  his  request,  I  went  up  from  the  country 
to  call  on  him  in  London.  Between  his  old  feelings  to- 
wards Harriet,  from  whom  he  was  not  then  separated,  and 
his  new  passion  for  Mary,  he  showed  in  his  looks,  in  his 
gestures,  in  his  speech,  the  state  of  a  mind  '  suffering^  like 
a  little  kingdom,  the  nature  of  an  insurrection.'  His  eyes 
were  bloodshot,  his  hair  and  dress  disordered.  He  caught 
up  a  bottle  of  laudanum,  and  said, '  I  never  part  from  this.' " 

We  may  therefore  affirm,  I  think,  with  confidence  that 
in  the  winter  and  spring  of  1814,  Shelley  had  been  be- 
coming gradually  more  and  more  estranged  from  Harriet, 
whose  commonplace  nature  was  no  mate  for  his,  and 
whom  he  had  never  loved  with  all  the  depth  of  his  affec- 
tion; that  his  intimacy  with  the  Boinville  family  had 
brought  into  painful  prominence  whatever  was  jarring  and 
repugnant  to  him  in  his  home ;  and  that  in  this  crisis  of 
his  fate  he  had  fallen  in  love  for  the  first  time  seriously 
with  Mary  Godwin.1  She  was  then  a  girl  of  sixteen,  "  fair 
and  fair-haired,  pale  indeed,  and  with  a  piercing  look,"  to 
quote  Hogg's  description  of  her,  as  she  first  appeared  be- 
fore him  on  the  8th  or  9th  of  June,  1814.  With  her 

1  The  date  at  which  he  first  made  Mary's  acquaintance  is  uncer- 
tain.   Peacock  sajs  that  it  was  between  April  18  and  June  8. 
32 


80  SHELLEY.  [CHAP. 

freedom  from  prejudice,  her  tense  and  high-wrought  sen- 
sibility, her  acute  intellect,  enthusiasm  for  ideas,  and  vivid 
imagination,  Mary  Godwin  was  naturally  a  fitter  compan- 
ion for  Shelley  than  the  good  Harriet,  however  beautiful. 

That  Shelley  early  in  1814  had  no  intention  of  leaving 
his  wife,  is  probable ;  for  he  was  re-married  to  her  on  the 
24th  of  March,  eight  days  after  his  impassioned  letter  to 
Ilogg,  in  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square.  Harriet  was 
pregnant,  and  this  ratification  of  the  Scotch  marriage  was 
no  doubt  intended  to  place  the  legitimacy  of  a  possible 
heir  beyond  all  question.  Yet  it  seems,  if  we  may  found 
conjecture  on  "Stanzas,  April,  1814,"  that  in  the  very 
month  after  this  new  ceremony  Shelley  found  the  diffi- 
culties of  his  wedded  life  insuperable,  and  that  he  was 
already  making  up  his  mind  to  part  from  Harriet.  About 
the  middle  of  June  the  separation  actually  occurred — not 
by  mutual  consent,  so  far  as  any  published  documents 
throw  light  upon  the  matter,  but  rather  by  Shelley's  sud- 
den abandonment  of  his  wife  and  child.1  For  a  short 
while  Harriet  was  left  in  ignorance  of  his  abode,  and  with 
a  very  insufficient  sum  of  money  at  her  disposal.  She 
placed  herself  under  the  protection  of  her  father,  retired 
to  Bath,  and  about  the  beginning  of  July  received  a  letter 
from  Shelley,  who  was  thenceforth  solicitous  for  her  wel- 
fare, keeping  up  a  correspondence  with  her,  supplying  her 
with  funds,  and  by  no  means  shrinking  from  personal 
communications. 

That  Shelley  must  bear  the  responsibility  of  this  sep- 
aration seems  to  me  quite  clear.  His  justification  is  to 
be  found  in  his  avowed  opinions  on  the  subject  of  love 

1  Leigh  Hunt,  Autob.  p.  236,  and  Medwin,  however,  both  assert 
that  it  was  by  mutual  consent  The  whole  question  must  be  studied 
in  Peacock  and  in  Garnett,  Relics  of  Shelley,  p.  147. 


jr.]  SEPARATION  FROM  HARRIET.  81 

and  marriage  —  opinions  which  Harriet  knew  well  and 
professed  to  share,  and  of  which  he  had  recently  made 
ample  confession  in  the  notes  to  Queen  Mob.  The  world 
will  still  agree  with  Lord  Eldon  in  regarding  those  opin- 
ions as  dangerous  to  society,  and  a  blot  upon  the  poet's 
character;  but  it  would  be  unfair,  while  condemning 
them  as  frankly  as  he  professed  them,  to  blame  him  also 
because  he  did  not  conform  to  the  opposite  code  of 
morals,  for  which  he  frequently  expressed  extreme  ab- 
horrence, and  which  he  stigmatized,  however  wrongly,  as 
the  source  of  the  worst  social  vices.  It  must  be  added 
that  the  Shelley  family  in  their  memorials  of  the  poet, 
and  through  their  friend,  Mr.  Richard  Garnett,  inform  us, 
without  casting  any  slur  on  Harriet,  that  documents  are 
extant  which  will  completely  vindicate  the  poet's  conduct 
in  this  matter.  It  is  therefore  but  just  to  await  their 
publication  before  pronouncing  a  decided  judgment. 
Meanwhile  there  remains  no  doubt  about  the  fact  that 
forty  days  after  leaving  Harriet,  Shelley  departed  from 
London  with  Mary  Godwin,  who  had  consented  to  share 
his  fortunes.  How  he  plighted  his  new  troth,  and  won 
the  hand  of  her  who  was  destined  to  be  his  companion 
for  life,  may  best  be  told  in  Lady  Shelley's  words : — 

"  His  anguish,  his  isolation,  his  difference  from  other 
men,  his  gifts  of  genius  and  eloquent  enthusiasm,  made  a 
deep  impression  on  Godwin's  daughter  Mary,  now  a  girl 
of  sixteen,  who  had  been  accustomed  to  hear  Shelley 
spoken  of  as  something  rare  and  strange.  To  her,  as  they 
met  one  eventful  day  in  St.  Pancras  Churchyard,  by  her 
mother's  grave,  Bysshe,  in  burning  words,  poured  forth 
the  tale  of  his  wild  past — how  he  had  suffered,  how  he 
had  been  misled,  and  how,  if  supported  by  her  love,  he 
hoped  in  future  years  to  enrol  his  name  with  the  wise  and 


82  SHELLEY.  [CHAP. 

good  who  had  done  battle  for  their  fellow-men,  and  been 
true  through  all  adverse  storms  to  the  cause  of  humanity. 
Unhesitatingly,  she  placed  her  hand  in  his,  and  linked  her 
fortune  with  his  own ;  and  most  truthfully,  as  the  re- 
maining portions  of  these  Memorials  will  prove,  was  tho 
pledge  of  both  redeemed.  The  theories  in  which  the 
daughter  of  the  authors  of  Political  Justice,  and  of  the 
Rights  of  Woman,  had  been  educated,  spared  her  from 
any  conflict  between  her  duty  and  her  affection.  For  she 
was  the  child  of  parents  whose  writings  had  had  for  their 
object  to  prove  that  marriage  was  one  among  the  many 
institutions  which  a  new  era  in  the  history  of  mankind 
was  about  to  sweep  away.  By  her  father,  whom  she 
loved — by  the  writings  of  her  mother,  whom  she  had  been 
taught  to  venerate  —  these  doctrines  had  been  rendered 
familiar  to  her  mind.  It  was  therefore  natural  that  she 
should  listen  to  the  dictates  of  her  own  heart,  and  willing"- 
ly  unite  her  fate  with  one  who  was  so  worthy  of  her  love." 
Soon  after  her  withdrawal  to  Bath,  Harriet  gave  birth 
to  Shelley's  second  child,  Charles  Bysshe,  who  died  iu 
1826.  She  subsequently  formed  another  connexion  which 
proved  unhappy;  and  on  the  10th  of  November,  1816, 
she  committed  suicide  by  drowning  herself  in  the  Serpen» 
tine.  The  distance  of  time  between  June,  1814,  and  No- 
vember, 1816,  and  the  new  ties  formed  by  Harriet  in  this 
interval,  prove  that  there  was  no  immediate  connexion  be- 
tween Shelley's  abandonment  of  his  wife  and  her  suicide. 
She  had  always  entertained  the  thought  of  self -destruction, 
as  Hogg,  who  is  no  adverse  witness  in  her  case,  has  am- 
ply  recorded ;  and  it  may  be  permitted  us  to  suppose  that, 
finding  herself  for  the  second  time  unhappy  in  her  love, 
she  reverted  to  a  long-since  cherished  scheme,  and  cut  the 
knot  of  life  and  all  its  troublea 


IT.]  SEPARATION  FROM  HARRIET.  83 

So  far  as  this  is  possible,  I  have  attempted  to  narrate 
the  most  painful  episode  in  Shelley's  life  as  it  occurred, 
without  extenuation  and  without  condemnation.  Until 
the  papers,  mentioned  with  such  insistence  by  Lady  Shel 
ley  and  Mr,  Garnett,  are  given  to  the  world,  it  is  impos- 
sible that  the  poet  should  not  bear  the  reproach  of  heart- 
lessness  and  inconstancy  in  this  the  gravest  of  all  human 
relations.  Such,  however,  is  my  belief  in  the  essential 
goodness  of  his  character,  after  allowing,  as  we  must  do, 
for  the  operation  of  his  peculiar  principles  upon  his  con- 
duct, that  I  for  my  own  part  am  willing  to  suspend  my 
judgment  till  the  time  arrives  for  his  vindication.  The 
language  used  by  Lady  Shelley  and  Mr.  Garnett  justify  us 
in  expecting  that  that  vindication  will  be  as  startling  as 
complete.  If  it  is  not,  they,  as  pleading  for  him,  will 
have  overshot  the  mark  of  prudence. 

On  the  28th  of  July  Shelley  left  London  with  Mary 
Godwin,  who  up  to  this  date  had  remained  beneath  her 
father's  roof.  There  was  some  secrecy  in  their  departure, 
because  they  were  accompanied  by  Miss  Clairmont,  whose 
mother  disapproved  of  her  forming  a  third  in  the  party. 
Having  made  their  way  to  Dover,  they  crossed  the  Chan- 
nel in  an  open  boat,  and  went  at  once  to  Paris._^  Here 
they  hired  a  donkey  for  their  luggage,  intending  to  per- 
form the  journey  across  France  on  foot,  Shelley,  how- 
ever, sprained  his  ancle,  and  a  mule-carriage  was  provided 
for  the  party.  In  this  conveyance  they  reached  the  Jura, 
and  entered  Switzerland  at  Neufchatel  Brunnen,  on  the 
Lake  of  Lucerne,  was  chosen  for  their  residence ;  and  here 
Shelley  began  his  romantic  tale  of  The  Assassins^  a  por- 
tion of  which  is  printed  in  his  prose  works.  Want  of 
money  compelled  them  soon  to  think  of  turning  their  steps 
homeward;  and  the  back  journey  was  performed  upon 


84  SHELLEY.  [our. 

the  Rcuss  and  Rhine.  They  reached  Gravesend,  after  a 
bad  passage,  on  the  13th  of  September.  Mrs.  Shelley's 
History  of  a  Six  Weeks'  Tour  relates  the  details  of  this 
trip,  which  was  of  great  importance  in  forming  Shelley's 
taste,  and  in  supplying  him  with  the  scenery  of  river,  rock, 
and  mountain,  so  splendidly  utilized  in  Alastor. 

The  autumn  was  a  period  of  more  than  usual  money 
difficulty;  but  on  the  6th  of  January,  1815,  Sir  Bysshe 
died,  Percy  became  the  next  heir  to  the  baronetcy  and 
the  family  estates,  and  an  arrangement  was  made  with 
his  father  by  right  of  which  he  received  an  allowance  of 
1000A  a  year.  A  jmrtir-t,  cf  hi-  income  \\.-i>  iiiniir.li.-itflv 
set  apart  for  Harriot,  The  winter  was  passed  in  London, 
where  Shelley  walked  a  hospital  in  order,  it  is  said,  to 
acquire  some  medical  knowledge  that  might  be  of  service 
to  the  poor  he  visited.  His  own  health  at  this  period  was 
very  bad.  A  physician  whom  he  consulted  pronounced 
that  he  was  rapidly  sinking  under  pulmonary  disease,  and 
he  suffered  frequent  attacks  of  acute  pain.  The  consump- 
tive symptoms  seem  to  have  been  so  marked  that  for  the 
next  three  years  he  had  no  doubt  that  he  was  destined  to 
an  early  death.  In  1818,  however,  all  danger  of  phthisis 
passed  away ;  and  during  the  rest  of  his  short  life  he  only 
suffered  from  spasms  and  violent  pains  in  the  side,  which 
baffled  the  physicians,  but;,  though  they  caused  him  ex- 
treme anguish,  did  not  menace  any  vital  organ.  To  the 
subject  of  his  health  it  will  be  necessary  to  return  at  a 
later  period  of  this  biography.  For  the  present  it  is 
enough  to  remember  that  his  physical  condition  was  such 
as  to  justify  his  own  expectation  of  death  at  no  distant 
time.1 

Fond  as  ever  of  wandering,  Shelley  set  out  in  the  early 
1  See  Letter  to  Godwin  in  Shelley's  Memorials,  p.  78. 


rv.]  SEPARATION  FROM  HARRIET.  85 

_ .summer ..for.*  tour- with  Mary.  They  visited  Devonshire 
and  Clifton,  and  then  settled  in  a  house  on  Bishopsgate 
Heath,  near  AVimlsor  Forest.  The  summer  was  further 
broken  by  a  water  excursion  up  the  Thames  to  its  source, 
in  the  company  of  Mr.  Peacock  and  Charles  Clairmont. 
Peacock  traces  the  poet's  taste  for  boating,  which  af- 
terwards became  a  passion  with  him,  to  this  excursion. 
About  this  there  is,  however,  some  doubt.  Medwin  tells 
us  that  Shelley  while  a  boy  delighted  in  being  on  the 
water,  and  that  he  enjoyed  the  pastime  at  Eton.  On  the 
other  hand,  Mr.  W.  S.  Halliday,  a  far  better  authority  than 
Medwin,  asserts  positively  that  he  never  saw  Shelley  on 
the  river  at  Eton,  and  Hogg  relates  nothing  to  prove  that 
he  practised  rowing  at  Oxford.  It  is  certain  that,  though 
inordinately  fond  of  boats  and  every  kind  of  water — river, 
sea,  lake,  or  canal — he  never  learned  to  swim.  Peacock 
also  notices  his  habit  of  floating  paper  boats,  and  gives  an 
amusing  description  of  the  boredom  suffered  by  Hogg  on 
occasions  when  Shelley  would  stop  by  the  side  of  pond  or 
mere  to  float  a  mimic  navy.  The  not  altogether  apocry- 
phal story  of  his  having  once  constructed  a  boat  out  of  a 
bank-post-bill,  and  launched  it  on  the  lake  in  Kensington 
Gardens,  deserves  to  be  alluded  to  in  this  connexion. 

On  their  return  from  this  river  journey,  Shelley  began 
the  poem  of  Alastor,  haunting  the  woodland  glades  and 
oak  groves  of  ^Vindsor  Forest,  and  drawing  from  that 
noble  scenery  his  Inspiration.  It  was  printed  with  a  few 
other  poems  in  one  volume  the  next  year.  Not  only  was 
Alastor  the  first  serious  poem  published  by  Shelley;  but 
it  was  also  the  first  of  his  compositions  which  revealed 
the  greatness  of  his  genius.  Rarely  has  blank  verse  been 
written  with  more  majesty  and  music:  and  while  the  in- 
fluence of  Milton  and  Wordsworth  may  be  traced  in  cer- 


8«  SHELLEY.  (CHAP. 

tain  passages,  the  versification,  tremulous  with  lyrical  vi- 
brations, is  such  as  only  Shelley  could  have  produced. 

"Alastor"  is  the  Greek  name  for  a  vengeful  daemon, 
driving  its  victim  into  desert  places ;  and  Shelley,  prompt- 
ed by  Peacock,  chose  it  for  the  title  of  a  poem  which  de- 
scribes the  Nemesis  of  solitary  souls.  Apart  from  its  in- 
trinsic merit  as  a  work  of  art,  Alastor  has  great  autobio- 
graphical value.  Mrs.  Shelley  affirms  that  it  was  written 
under  the  expectation  of  speedy  death,  and  under  the 
sense  of  disappointment,  consequent  upon  the  misfortunes 
of  his  early  life.  This  accounts  for  the  somewhat  un- 
healthy vein  of  sentiment  which  threads  the  wilderness  of 
its  sublime  descriptions.  All  that  Shelley  had  observed 
of  natural  beauty — in  Wales,  at  Lynton,  in  Switzerland, 
upon  the  eddies  of  the  Reuss,  beneath  the  oak  shades  of 
the  forest — is  presented  to  us  in  a  series  of  pictures  pene- 
trated with  profound  emotion.  But  the  deeper  meaning 
of  Alastor  is  to  be  found,  not  in  the  thought  of  death  nor 
in  the  poet's  recent  communings  with  nature,  but  in  the 
motto  from  St.  Augustine  placed  upon  its  title-page,  and 
in  the  Hymn  tp__Intellectual  Beauty,  composed  about  a 
year  later.  Enamoured  of  ideal  loveliness,  the  poet  pur- 
sues his  vision  through  the  universe,  vainly  hoping  to  as- 
suage the  thirst  which  has  been  stimulated  in  his  spirit, 
and  vainly  longing  for  some  mortal  realization  of  his  love. 
Alastor,  like  Epipsychidion,  reveals  the  mistake  which 
Shelley  made  in  thinking  that  the  idea  of  beauty  could 
become  incarnate  for  him  in  any  earthly  form :  while  the 
Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty  recognizes  the  truth  that 
such  realization  of  the  ideal  is  impossible.  The  very  last 
letter  written  by  Shelley  sets  the  misconception  in  its 
proper  light :  "  I  think  one  is  always  in  love  with  some- 
thing or  other ;  the  error,  and  I  confess  it  is  not  easy  for 


IT.]  SEPARATION  FROM  HARRIET.  8*7 

spirits  cased  in  flesh  and  blood  to  avoid  it,  consists  in 
seeking  in  a  mortal  image  the  likeness  of  what  is,  perhaps, 
eternal."  But  this  Shelley  discovered  only  with  "the 
years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind,"  and  when  he  was 
upon  the  very  verge  of  his  untimely  death. 

The  following  quotation  is  a  fair  specimen  of  the  blank 
verse  of  Alastor.  It  expresses  that  longing  for  perfect 
sympathy  in  an  ideal  love,  which  the  sense  of  divine  beau- 
ty had  stirred  in  the  poet's  heart : — 

At  length  upon  the  lone  Chorasmian  shore 

He  paused,  a  wide  and  melancholy  waste 

Of  putrid  marshes.     A  strong  impulse  urged 

His  steps  to  the  sea-shore.    A  swan  was  there, 

Beside  a  sluggish  stream  among  the  reeds. 

It  rose  as  he  approached,  and,  with  strong  wings 

Scaling  the  upward  sky,  bent  its  bright  course 

High  over  the  immeasurable  main. 

His  eyes  pursued  its  flight : — "  Thou  hast  a  home, 

Beautiful  bird !  thou  voyagest  to  thine  home, 

Where  thy  sweet  mate  will  twine  her  downy  neck 

With  thine,  and  welcome  thy  return  with  eyes 

Bright  in  the  lustre  of  their  own  fond  joy. 

And  what  am  I  that  I  should  linger  here, 

With  voice  far  sweeter  than  thy  dying  notes, 

Spirit  more  vast  than  thine,  frame  more  attuned 

To  beauty,  wasting  these  surpassing  powers 

In  the  deaf  air,  to  the  blind  earth,  and  heaven 

That  echoes  not  my  thoughts  ?"     A  gloomy  smile 

Of  desperate  hope  wrinkled  his  quivering  lips. 

For  Sleep,  he  knew,  kept  most  relentlessly 

Its  precious  charge,  and  silent  Death  exposed, 

Faithless  perhaps  as  Sleep,  a  shadowy  lure, 

With  doubtful  smile  mocking  its  own  strange  charms. 

William,  the  eldest  son  of  Shelley  and  Mary  Godwin, 
was  born  on  the  24th  of  Jan.,  1816.  In  the  spring  of 
that  year  they  went  together,  accompanied  by  Miss  Clair- 


88  SHELLEY.  [CHAP 

mont,  for  a  second  time  to  Switzerland.  They  reached 
Geneva  on  the  17th  of  May  and  were  soon  after  joined 
by  Lord  Byron  and  his  travelling  physician,  Dr.  Polidori 
Shelley  had  not  yet  made  Byron's  acquaintance,  though 
he  had  sent  him  a  copy  of  Queen  Afab,  with  a  letter, 
which  miscarried  in  the  post.  They  were  now  thrown 
into  daily  intercourse,  occupying  the  villas  Diodati  and 
Mont  Alegre,  at  no  great  distance  from  each  other,  passing 
their  days  upon  the  lake  in  a  boat  which  they  purchased, 
and  spending  the  nights  in  conversation.  Miss  Clairmont 
had  known  Byron  in  London,  and  their  acquaintance  now 
ripened  into  an  intimacy,  the  fruit  of  which  was  the  child 
Allegra.  This  fact  has  to  be  mentioned  by  Shelley's  bi- 
ographer, because  Allegra  afterwards  became  an  inmate 
of  his  home ;  and  though  he  and  Mary  were  ignorant  of 
what  was  passing  at  Geneva,  they  did  not  withdraw  their 
sympathy  from  the  mother  of  Lord  Byron's  daughter. 
The  lives  of  Byron  and  Shelley  during  the  next  six  years 
were  destined  to  be  curiously  blent.  Both  were  to  seek 
in  Italy  an  exile-home ;  while  their  friendship  was  to  be- 
come one  of  the  most  interesting  facts  of  English  literary 
history.  The  influence  of  Byron  upon  Shelley,  as  he 
more  than  once  acknowledged,  and  as  his  wife  plainly  per- 
ceived, was,  to  a  great  extent,  depressing.  For  Byron's 
genius  and  its  fruits  in  poetry  he  entertained  the  highest 
possible  opinion.  He  could  not  help  comparing  his  own 
achievement  and  his  fame  with  Byron's;  and  the  result 
was  that  in  the  presence  of  one  whom  he  erroneously  be- 
lieved to  be  the  greater  poet,  he  became  inactive.  Shel- 
ley, on  the  contrary,  stimulated  Byron's  productive  faculty 
to  nobler  efforts,  raised  his  moral  tone,  and  infused  into 
his  less  subtle  intellect  something  of  his  own  philosoph- 
ical depth  and  earnestness.  Much  as  he  enjoyed  Byron's 


IT.]  SEPARATION  FROM  HARRIET.  8* 

society  and  admired  his  writing,  Shelley  was  not  blind  to 
the  imperfections  of  his  nature.  The  sketch  which  he  has 
left  us  of  Count  Maddalo,  the  letters  written  to  his  wife 
from  Venice  and  Ravenna,  and  his  correspondence  on  the 
subject  of  Leigh  Hunt's  visit  to  Italy,  supply  the  most  dis- 
criminating criticism  which  has  yet  been  passed  upon  his 
brother  poet's  character.  It  is  clear  that  he  never  found 
in  Byron  a  perfect  friend,  and  that  he  had  not  accepted 
him  as  one  with  whom  he  sympathized  upon  the  deeper 
questions  of  feeling  and  conduct.  Byron,  for  his  part,  rec- 
ognized in  Shelley  the  purest  nature  he  had  ever  known. 
"He  was  the  most  gentle,  the  most  amiable,  and  least 
worldly-minded  person  I  ever  met;  full  of  delicacy,  dis- 
interested beyond  all  other  men,  and  possessing  a  degree 
of  genius  joined  to  simplicity  as  rare  as  it  is  admirable. 
He  had  formed  to  himself  a  beau  ideal  of  all  that  is  fine, 
high-minded,  and  noble,  and  he  acted  up  to  this  ideal 
even  to  the  very  letter." 

Toward  the  end  of  June  the  two  poets  made  the  tour  of 
Lake  Geneva  in  their  boat,  and  were  very  nearly  wrecked 
off  the  rocks  of  Meillerie.  On  this  occasion  Shelley  was 
in  imminent  danger  of  death  from  drowning.  His  one 
anxiety,  however,  as  he  wrote  to  Peacock,  was  lest  Byron 
should  attempt  to  save  him  at  the  risk  of  his  own  life. 
Byron  described  him  as  "  bold  as  a  lion ;"  and  indeed  it 
may  here  be  said,  once  and  for  all,  that  Shelley's  physical 
courage  was  only  equalled  by  his  moral  fearlessness.  He 
carried  both  without  bravado  to  the  verge  of  temerity,  and 
may  justly  be  said  to  have  never  known  what  terror  was. 
Another  summer  excursion  was  a  visit  to  Chamouni,  of 
which  he  has  left  memorable  descriptions  in  his  letters  to 
Peacock,  and  in  the  somewhat  Coleridgian  verses  on  Mont 
Blanc.  The  preface  to  Loon  and  Cythna  shows  what  a 
6  6 


90  SHELLET.  [CHAP. 

powerful  impression  had  been  made  upon  him  by  the 
glaciers,  and  how  he  delighted  in  the  element  of  peril. 
There  is  a  tone  of  exultation  in  the  words  which  record 
the  experiences  of  his  two  journeys  in  Switzerland  and 
France : — "  I  have  been  familiar  from  boyhood  with  moun- 
tains and  lakes  and  the  sea,  and  the  solitude  of  forests. 
Danger,  which  sports  upon  the  brink  of  precipices,  has 
been  my  playmate.  I  have  trodden  the  glaciers  of  the 
Alps,  and  lived  under  the  eye  of  Mont  Blanc.  I  have 
been  a  wanderer  among  distant  fields.  I  have  sailed  down 
mighty  rivers,  and  seen  the  sun  rise  and  set,  and  the  stars 
come  forth,  whilst  I  have  sailed  night  and  day  down  a 
rapid  stream  among  mountains.  I  have  seen  populous 
cities,  and  have  watched  the  pas-ions  which  rise  and 
spread,  and  sink  and  change  amongst  assembled  multi- 
tudes of  men.  I  have  seen  the  theatre  ot  the  more  visi- 
ble ravages  of  tyranny  and  war,  cities  and  villages  reduced 
to  scattered  groups  of  black  and  roofless  houses,  and  the 
naked  inhabitants  sitting  famished  upon  their  desolated 
thresholds." 

On  their  return  to  the  lake,  the  Shelleys  found  M.G, 
Lewis  established  with  Byron.  This  addition  to  tho  cir- 
cle introduced  much  conversation  about  apparitions,  and 
each  member  of  the  party  undertook  to  produce  a  ghost 
story.  Polidori's  Vampyre  and  Mrs.  Shelley's  Frank^n- 
stein  were  the  only  durable  results  of  their  determination. 
But  an  incident  occurred  which  is  of  some  importance  in 
the  history  of  Shelley's  psychological  condition.  Toward 
midnight  on  the  18th  of  July,  Byron  recited  the  lines  in 
Christabel  about  the  lady's  breast;  when  Shelley  sudden- 
ly started  up,  shrieked,  and  fled  from  the  room.  He  had 
seen  a  vision  of  a  woman  with  eyes  instead  of  nipples. 
At  this  time  he  was  writing  notes  upon  the  phenomena  of 


IT.]  SEPARATION  FROM  HARRIET.  81 

sleep  to  be  inserted  in  his  Speculations  on  Metaphysics,  and 
Mrs.  Shelley  informs  us  that  the  mere  effort  to  remember 
dreams  of  thrilling  or  mysterious  import  so  disturbed  his 
nervous  system  that  he  had  to  relinquish  the  task.  At  no 
period  of  his  life  was  he  wholly  free  from  visions  which 
had  the  reality  of  facts.  Sometimes  they  occurred  in 
sleep,  and  were  prolonged  with  painful  vividness  into  his 
waking  moments.  Sometimes  they  seemed  to  grow  out 
of  his  intense  meditation,  or  to  present  themselves  before 
his  eyes  as  the  projection  of  a  powerful  inner  impression. 
All  his  sensations  were  abnormally  acute,  and  his  ever-ac- 
tive imagination  confused  the  border-lands  of  the  actual 
and  the  visionary.  Such  a  nature  as  Shelley's,  through  its 
far  greater  susceptibility  than  is  common  even  with  artis- 
tic temperaments,  was  debarred  in  moments  of  high-strung 
emotion  from  observing  the  ordinary  distinctions  of  sub- 
ject and  object;  and  this  peculiar  quality  must  never  be 
forgotten  when  we  seek  to  estimate  the  proper  proportions 
of  Dichtung  und  Wahrkeit  in  certain  episodes  of  his  biog- 
raphy. The  strange  story,  for  example,  told  by  Peacock 
about  a  supposed  warning  he  had  received  in  the  spring 
of  this  year  from  Mr.  Williams  -of  Tremadoc,  may  possi- 
bly be  explained  on  the  hypothesis  that  his  brooding 
thoughts  had  taken  form  before  him,  both  ear  and  eye 
having  been  unconsciously  pressed  into  the  service  of  a 
subjective  energy.1 

On  their  return  to  England  in  September,  Shelley  took 
a  cottage  at  Great  Marlow  on  the  Thames,  in  order  to  be 
near  his  friend  Peacock.  While  it  was  being  prepared 
for  the  reception  of  his  family,  he  stayed  at  Bath,  and 
there  heard  of  Harriet's  suicide.  The  life  that  once  was 
dearest  to  him,  had  ended  thus  in  misery,  desertion,  want 

1  Eraser's  Magazine,  Jan.,  1860,  p.  98. 


92  SHELLEY.  [CHAP. 

The  mother  of  his  two  children,  abandoned  by  both  hei 
husband  and  her  lover,  and  driven  from  her  father's  home, 
had  drowned  herself  after  a  brief  struggle  with  circum- 
stance. However  Shelley  may  have  felt  that  his  con- 
science was  free  from  blame,  however  small  an  element 
of  self-reproach  may  have  mingled  with  his  grief  and 
horror,  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  suffered  most  acute- 
ly. His  deepest  ground  for  remorse  seems  to  have  been 
the  conviction  that  he  had  drawn  Harriet  into  a  sphere  of 
thought  and  feeling  for  which  she  was  not  qualified,  and 
that  had  it  not  been  for  him  and  his  opinions,  she  might 
have  lived  a  happy  woman  in  some  common  walk  of  life. 
One  of  his  biographers  asserts  that  "  he  continued  to  be 
haunted  by  certain  recollections,  partly  real  and  partly  im- 
aginative, which  pursued  him  like  an  Orestes,"  and  even 
Trelawny,  who  knew  him  only  in  the  last  months  of  his 
life,  said  that  the  impression  of  that  dreadful  moment 
was  still  vivid.  We  may  trace  the  echo  of  his  feelings 
in  some  painfully  pathetic  verses  written  in  1817;*  and 
though  he  did  not  often  speak  of  Harriet,  Peacock  has 
recorded  one  memorable  occasion  on  which  he  disclosed 
the  anguish  of  his  spirit  to  a  friend,* 

Shelley  hurried  at  once  to  London,  and  found  some 
consolation  in  the  society  of  Leigh  Hunt  The  friend- 
ship extended  to  him  by  that  excellent  man  at  this  season 
of  his  trouble  may  perhaps  count  for  something  with 
those  who  are  inclined  to  judge  him  harshly.  Two  im- 
portant events  followed  immediately  upon  the  tragedy. 
The  first  was  Shelley's  marriage  with  Mary  Godwin  on  the 
30th  of  December,  1816.  Whether  Shelley  would  have 
taken  this  step  except  under  strong  pressure  from  with- 

1  Forman,  iii.  148. 

*  Fraser,  Jan.,  1860,  p.  102. 


rr.j  SEPARATION  FROM  HARRIET.  93 

out,  appears  to  me  very  doubtful.  Of  all  men  who  ever 
lived,  he  was  the  most  resolutely  bent  on  confirming  his 
theories  by  his  practice ;  and  in  this  instance  there  was  no 
valid  reason  why  he  should  not  act  up  to  principles  pro- 
fessed in  common  by  himself  and  the  partner  of  his  fort- 
unes, no  less  than  by  her  father  and  her  mother.  It  is, 
therefore,  reasonable  to  suppose  that  he  yielded  to  argu- 
ments; and  these  arguments  must  have  been  urged  by 
Godwin,  who  had  never  treated  him  with  cordiality  since 
he  left  England  in  1816.  Godwin,  though  overrated  in 
his  generation,  and  almost  ludicrously  idealized  by  Shelley, 
was  a  man  whose  talents  verged  on  genius.  But  he  was 
by  no  means  consistent.  His  conduct  in  money-matters 
shows  that  he  could  not  live  the  life  of  a  self-sufficing 
philosopher ;  while  the  irritation  he  expressed  when  Shel- 
ley omitted  to  address  him  as  Esquire,  stood  in  comic  con- 
tradiction with  his  published  doctrines.  We  are  therefore 
perhaps  justified  in  concluding  that  he  worried  Shelley, 
the  one  enthusiastic  and  thorough-going  follower  he  had, 
into  marrying  his  daughter  in  spite  of  his  disciple's  prot- 
estations ;  nor  shall  we  be  far  wrong  if  we  surmise  that 
Godwin  congratulated  himself  on  Mary's  having  won  the 
right  to  bear  the  name  of  a  future  baronet. 

The  second  event  was  the  refusal  of  Mr.  Westbrook  to 
deliver  up  the  custody  of  his  grandchildren.  A  chancery 
suit  was  instituted ;  at  the  conclusion  of  which,  in  August, 
1817,  Lord  Eldon  deprived  Shelley  of  his  son  and  daughter 
on  the  double  ground  of  his  opinions  expressed  in  Queen 
Mab,  and  of  his  conduct  toward  his  first  wife.  The  chil- 
dren were  placed  in  the  hands  of  a  clergyman,  to  be  edu- 
cated in  accordance  with  principles  diametrically  opposed 
to  their  parent's,  while  Shelley's  income  was  mulcted  in  a 
sum  of  200J.  for  their  maintenance.  Thus  sternly  did  the 


94  SHELLEY,  [ciur.  IT. 

father  learn  the  value  of  that  ancient  ^Eschylean  maxim, 
ry  Ipaoavn  iradtlv,  the  doer  of  the  deed  most  suffer.  His 
own  impulsiveness,  his  reckless  assumption  of  the  heaviest 
responsibilities,  his  overweening  confidence  in  his  own 
strength  to  move  the  weight  of  the  world's  opinions,  had 
brought  him  to  this  tragic  pass  —  to  the  suicide  of  the 
woman  who  had  loved  him,  and  to  the  sequestration  of 
the  offspring  whom  he  loved. 

Shelley  is  too  great  to  serve  as  text  for  any  sermon; 
and  yet  we  may  learn  from  him  as  from  a  hero  of  Hebrew 
or  Hellenic  story.  His  life  was  a  tragedy ;  and  like  some 
protagonist  of  Greek  drama,  he  was  capable  of  erring  and 
of  suffering  greatly.  He  had  kicked  against  the  altar  of 
justice  as  established  in  the  daily  sanctities  of  human  life ; 
and  now  he  had  to  bear  the  penalty.  The  conventions  ho 
despised  and  treated  like  the  dust  beneath  his  feet,  were 
found  in  this  most  cruel  crisis  to  be  a  rock  on  which  his 
very  heart  was  broken.  From  this  rude  trial  of  his  moral 
nature  he  arose  a  stronger  being ;  and  if  longer  life  had 
been  granted  him,  he  would  undoubtedly  have  presented 
the  ennobling  spectacle  of  one  who  had  been  lessoned  by 
his  own  audacity,  and  by  its  bitter  fruits,  into  harmony 
with  the  immutable  laws  which  he  was  ever  seeking  to 
obey.  It  is  just  this  conflict  between  the  innate  rectitude 
of  Shelley's  over-daring  nature  and  the  circumstances  of 
ordinary  existence,  which  makes  his  history  so  tragic ;  and 
we  may  justly  wonder  whether,  when  he  read  the  Sopho- 
clean  tragedies  of  CEdipus,  he  did  not  apply  their  doctrine 
of  self-will  and  Nemesis  to  his  own  fortunes. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

LIFK  AT  MARLOW,  AND  JOURNEY  TO  ITALT. 

AMID  the  torturing  distractions  of  the  Chancery  suit  about 
his  children,  and  the  still  more  poignant  anguish  of  his 
own  heart,  and  with  the  cloud  of  what  he  thought  swift- 
coming  death  above  his  head,  Shelley  worked  steadily, 
during  the  summer  of  1817,  upon  his  poem  of  Laon  and 
Cythna.  Six  months  were  spent  in  this  task.  "The 
poem,"  to  borrow  Mrs.  Shelley's  words,  "  was  written  in 
his  boat,  as  it  floated  under  the  beech-groves  of  Bisham,  or 
during  wanderings  in  the  neighbouring  country,  which  is 
distinguished  for  peculiar  beauty."  Whenever  Shelley 
could,  he  composed  in  the  open  air.  The  terraces  of  the 
Villa  Cappuccini  at  Este  and  the  Baths  of  Caracalla  were 
the  birthplace  of  Prometheus.  The  Cenci  was  written  on 
the  roof  of  the  Villa  Valsovano  at  Leghorn.  The  Cascine 
of  Florence,  the  pine -woods  near  Pisa,  the  lawns  above 
San  Giuliano,  and  the  summits  of  the  Euganean  Hills, 
witnessed  the  creation  of  his  loveliest  lyrics ;  and  his  last 
great  poem,  the  Triumph  of  Life,  was  transferred  to  paper 
in  his  boat  upon  the  Bay  of  Spezia. 

If  Alastor  had  expressed  one  side  of  Shelley's  nature, 
his  devotion  to  Ideal  Beauty,  Laon  and  Cythna  was  in  a 
far  profounder  sense  representative  of  its  author.  All  his 
previous  experiences  and  all  his  aspirations — his  passion/ 


96  SHELLET.  [CHAP, 

ate  belief  in  friendship,  his  principle  of  the  equality  of 
women  with  men,  his  demand  for  bloodless  revolution,  his 
confidence  in  eloquence  and  reason  to  move  nations,  his 
doctrine  of  free  love,  his  vegetarianism,  his  hatred  of  re- 
ligious intolerance  and  tyranny  —  are  blent  together  and 
concentrated  in  the  glowing  cantos  of  this  wonderful  ro- 
mance. The  hero,  Laon,  is  himself  idealized,  the  self 
which  he  imagined  when  he  undertook  his  Irish  cam- 
paign. The  heroine,  Cythna,  is  the  helpmate  he  had  al- 
ways dreamed,  the  woman  exquisitely  feminine,  yet  capa- 
ble of  being  fired  with  male  enthusiasms,  and  of  grappling 
the  real  problems  of  our  nature  with  a  man's  firm  grasp. 
In  the  first  edition  of  the  poem  he  made  Laon  and  Cyth- 
na brother  and  sister,  not  because  he  believed  in  the  de- 
sirability of  incest,  but  because  he  wished  to  throw  a  glove 
down  to  society,  and  to  attack  the  intolerance  of  custom 
in  its  stronghold.  In  the  preface,  he  tells  us  that  it  was 
his  purpose  to  kindle  in  the  bosoms  of  his  readers  "  a  vir- 
tuous enthusiasm  for  those  doctrines  of  liberty  and  jus- 
tice, that  faith  and  hope  in  something  good,  which  neither 
violence,  nor  misrepresentation,  nor  prejudice,  can  ever 
wholly  extinguish  among  mankind ;"  to  illustrate  "  the 
growth  and  progress  of  individual  mind  aspiring  after  ex- 
cellence, and  devoted  to  the  love  of  mankind;"  and  to 
celebrate  Love  "as  the  sole  law  which  should  govern  the 
moral  world."  The  wild  romantic  treatment  of  this  di- 
dactic motive  makes  the  poem  highly  characteristic  of  its 
author.  It  is  written  in  Spenserian  stanzas,  with  a  rapid- 
ity of  movement  and  a  dazzling  brilliance  that  are  Shel- 
ley's own.  /  The  story  relates  the  kindling  of  a  nation  to 
freedom  atUhe-cry  of  a  young  poet-prophet,  the  tempo- 
rary triumph  of  the  good  cause,  the  final  victory  of  des- 
potic force,  and  the  martyrdom  of  the  hero,  together  with 


T.]  LIFE  AT  MARLOW.  VI 

whom  the  heroine  falls  a  willing  victim.  It  is  full  of 
thrilling  incidents  and  lovely  pictures ;  yet  the  tale  is  the 
least  part  of  the  poem;  and  few  readers  have  probably 
been  able  either  to  sympathize  with  its  visionary  charac- 
ters, or  to  follow  the  narrative  without  weariness.  As  in 
the  case  of  other  poems  by  Shelley  —  especially  those  in 
which  he  attempted  to  tell  a  story,  for  which  kind  of 
art  his  genius  was  not  well  suited — the  central  motive  of 
Laon  and  CytJina  is  surrounded  by  so  radiant  a  photo- 
sphere of  imagery  and  eloquence  that  it  is  difficult  to  fix 
our  gaze  upon  it,  blinded  as  we  are  by  the  excess  of  splen- 
dour. Yet  no  one  now  can  read  the  terrible  tenth  canto, 
or  the  lovely  fifth,  without  feeling  that  a  young  eagle  of 
poetry  had  here  tried  the  full  strength  of  his  pinions  in 
their  flight.  This  truth  was  by  no  means  recognized  when 
Laon  and  Cythna  first  appeared  before  the  public.  Hoot- 
ed down,  derided,  stigmatized,  and  howled  at,  it  only  served 
to  intensify  the  prejudice  with  which  the  author  of  Queen 
Mob  had  come  to  be  regarded. 

I  have  spoken  of  this  poem  under  its  first  name  of  Laon 
and  Cytfdnq^  A  certain  number  of  copies  were  issued  with 
this  title  f  boi^  the  publisher,  Oilier,  not  without  reason 
dreaded  the  effect  the  book  would  make ;  he  therefore  in- 
duced Shelley  to  alter  the  relationship  between  the  hero 
and  his  bride,  and  issued  the  old  sheets  with  certain  can- 
celled pages  under  the  title,  of  Revolt  of  Islam.  It  was 
published  in  January,  1818.  While  still  resident  at  Mar- 
low,  Shelley  began  two  autobiographical  poems — the  one 
Prince  Athanase,  which  he  abandoned  as  too  introspective 

1  How  many  copies  were  put  in  circulation  is  not  known.    There 
must  certainly  have  been  many  more  than  the  traditional  three ;  for 
when  I  was  a  boy  at  Harrow,  I  picked  up  two  uncut  copies  in  boards 
at  a  Bristol  bookshop,  for  the  price  of  2s.  6rf.  a  piece. 
5* 


98  SHELLEY.  ,.  iur. 

and  morbidly  self-analytical,  the  other  Rosalind  and  IltU*, 
which  he  finished  afterwards  in  Italy.  Of  the  second  of 
these  compositions  he  entertained  a  poor  opinion  ;  nor 
will  it  bear  comparison  with  his  best  work.  To  his  biog- 
rapher its  chief  interest  consists  in  tlie  character  of  Lio- 
nel, drawn  less  perhaps  exactly  from  himself  than  as  an 
ideal  of  the  man  he  would  have  wished  to  be.  The  poet 
in  Alastor,  Laon  in  the  Revolt  of  Islam,  Lionel  in  Rosa- 
lind and  Helen,  and  Prince  Athanase,  are  in  fact  a  re- 
markable row  of  self-portraits,  varying  in  the  tone  and  scale 
of  idealistic  treatment  bestowed  upon  them.  Later  on  in 
life,  Shelley  outgrew  this  preoccupation  with  his  idealized 
self,  and  directed  his  genius  to  more  objective  themes.  Yet 
the  autobiographic  tendency,  as  befitted  a  poet  of  the  high- 
est lyric  type,  remained  to  the  end  a  powerful  characteristic. 
Before  quitting  the  first  period  of  Shelley's  develop- 
ment, it  may  be  well  to  set  before  the  reader  a  specimen 
of  that  self-delineative  poetry  which  characterized  it ;  and 
since  it  is  difficult  to  detach  a  single  passage  from  the  con- 
tinuous stanzas  of  Laon  and  Cythna,  I  have  chosen  the 
lines  in  Rosalind  and  Helen  which  describe  young  Lionel  .* 

To  Lionel, 

Though  of  great  wealth  and  lineage  high, 
Yet  through  those  dungeon  walls  there  camo 
Thy  thrilling  light,  0  Liberty! 
And  as  the  meteor's  midnight  flame 
Startles  the  dreamer,  sun-like  truth 
Flashed  on  his  visionary  youth, 
And  filled  him,  not  with  love,  but  faith, 
And  hope,  and  courage  mute  in  death ; 
For  love  and  life  in  him  were  twins, 
Born  at  one  birth :  in  every  other 
First  life,  then  love  its  course  begins, 
Though  they  be  children  of  one  mother; 


T.]  LIFE  AT  MARLOW.  99 

And  so  through  this  dark  world  they  fleet 

Divided,  till  in  death  they  meet : 

But  he  loved  all  things  ever.    Then 

He  past  amid  the  strife  of  men, 

And  stood  at  the  throne  of  armed  power 

Pleading  for  a  world  of  woe : 

Secure  as  one  on  a  rock-built  tower 

O'er  the  wrecks  which  the  surge  trails  to  and  fro, 

'Mid  the  passions  wild  of  human  kind 

He  stood,  like  a  spirit  calming  them ; 

For,  it  was  said,  his  words  could  find 

Like  music  the  lulled  crowd,  and  stem 

That  torrent  of  unquiet  dream, 

Which  mortals  truth  and  reason  deem, 

But  is  revenge  and  fear  and  pride. 

Joyous  he  was ;  and  hope  and  peace 

On  all  who  heard  him  did  abide, 

Raining  like  dew  from  his  sweet  talk, 

As  where  the  evening  star  may  walk 

Along  the  brink  of  the  gloomy  seas, 

Liquid  mists  of  splendour  quiver. 

His  very  gestures  touch'd  to  tears 

The  unpersuaded  tyrant,  never 

So  moved  before :  his  presence  stung 

The  torturers  with  their  victim's  pain, 

And  none  knew  how  ;  and  through  their  ears. 

The  subtle  witchcraft  of  his  tongue 

Unlocked  the  hearts  of  those  who  keep 

Gold,  the  world's  bond  of  slavery. 

Men  wondered,  and  some  sneer'd  to  see 

One  sow  what  he  could  never  reap : 

For  he  is  rich,  they  said,  and  young, 

And  might  drink  from  the  depths  of  luxury. 

If  he  seeks  Fame,  Fame  never  crown'd 

The  champion  of  a  trampled  creed : 

If  he  seeks  Power,  Power  is  enthroned 

'Mid  ancient  rights  and  wrongs,  to  feed 

Which  hungry  wolves  with  praise  and  spoil, 

Those  who  would  sit  near  Power  must  toil ; 

And  such,  there  sitting,  all  may  see. 


100  SHELLEY.  [CHAC. 

During  tbe  year  nc  spent  at  Marlow,  Shelley  was  a 
frequent  visitor  at  Leigh  Hunt's  Hamp«tead  house,  where 
be  made  acquaintance  with  Keats,  and  the  brothers  Smith, 
authors  of  Rejected  Addresses.  Hunt's  recollections  sup- 
ply some  interesting  details,  which,  since  Hogg  and  Pea- 
cock fail  as  at  this  period,  may  be  profitably  used.  De- 
scribing the  manner  of  his  life  at  Marlow,  Hunt  writes 
as  follows :  "  He  rose  early  in  the  morning,  walked  and 
.  read  before  breakfast,  took  that  meal  sparingly,  wrote  and 
studied  the  greater  part  of  the  morning,  walked  and  read 
again,  dined  on  vegetables  (for  he  took  neither  meat  nor 
wine),  conversed  with  his  friends  (to  whom  his  house  was 
ever  open),  again  walked  out,  and  usually  finished  with 

^  reading  to  his  wife  till  ten  o'clock,  when  he  went  to  bed. 
This  was  his  daily  existence.  His  book  was  generally 
Plato,  or  Homer,  or  one  of  the  Greek  tragedians,  or  the 
Bible,  in  which  last  he  took  a  great,  though  peculiar,  and 
often  admiring  interest.  One  of  his  favourite  parts  was 
the  book  of  Job."  Mrs.  Shelley,  in  her  note  on  the  Revolt 
of  Islam,  confirms  this  account  of  his  Bible  studies ;  and 
indeed  the  influence  of  the  Old  Testament  upon  his  style 
may  be  traced  in  several  of  his  poems.  In  the  same  para- 
graph from  which  I  have  just  quoted,  Leigh  Hunt  gives 
a  just  notion  of  his  relation  to  Christianity,  pointing  out 
that  he  drew  a  distinction  between  the  Pauline  presenta- 
tion of  the  Christian  creeds,  and  the  spirit  of  the  Gospels. 
"  His  want  of  faith  in  the  letter,  and  his  exceeding  faith 
in  the  spirit  of  Christianity,  formed  a  comment,  the  one 
on  the  other,  very  formidable  to  those  who  chose  to  forget 
what  Scripture  itself  observes  on  that  point."  We  have 
only  to  read  Shelley's  Essay  on  Christianity,  in  order  to 
perceive  what  reverent  admiration  he  felt  for  Jesus,  and 
how  profoundly  he  understood  the  true  character  of  his 


T.J  LIFE  AT  MARLOW.  101 

teaching.  That  work,  brief  as  it  is,  forms  one  of  the  most 
valuable  extant  contributions  to  a  sound  theology,  and  is 
morally  far  in  advance  of  the  opinions  expressed  by  many 
who  regard  themselves  as  specially  qualified  to  speak  on 
the  subject.  It  is  certain  that,  as  Christianity  passes  be- 
yond its  mediaeval  phase,  and  casts  aside  the  husk  of  out- 
worn dogmas,  it  will  more  and  more  approximate  to  Shel- 
ley's exposition.  Here  and  here  only  is  a  vital  faith, 
adapted  to  the  conditions  of  modern  thought,  indestructi- 
ble because  essential,  and  fitted  to  unite  instead  of  sepa- 
rating minds  of  divers  quality.  It  may  sound  paradoxical 
to  claim  for  Shelley  of  all  men  a  clear  insight  into  the 
enduring  element  of  the  Christian  creed;  but  it  was  pre- 
cisely his  detachment  from  all  its  accidents  which  enabled 
him  to  discern  its  spiritual  purity,  and  placed  him  in  a 
true  relation  to  its  Founder.  For  those  who  would  nei- 
ther on  the  one  hand  relinquish  what  is  permanent  in 
religion,  nor  yet  on  the  other  deny  the  inevitable  con- 
clusions of  modern  thought,  his  teaching  is  indubitably 
valuable.  His  fierce  tirades  against  historic  Christianity 
must  be  taken  as  directed  against  an  ecclesiastical  system 
of  spiritual  tyranny,  hypocrisy,  and  superstition,  which  in 
his  opinion  had  retarded  the  growth  of  free  institutions, 
and  fettered  the  human  intellect.  Like  Campanella,  he 
distinguished  between  Christ,  who  sealed  the  gospel  of 
charity  with  his  blood,  and  those  Christians,  who  would 
be  the  first  to  crucify  their  Lord  if  he  returned  to  eart' 

That  Shelley  lived  up  to  his  religious  creed  is  amply 
proved.  To  help  the  needy  and  to  relieve  the  sick,  seem- 
ed to  him  a  simple  duty,  which  he  cheerfully  discharged. 
"  His  charity,  though  liberal,  was  not  weak.  He  inquired 
personally  into  the  circumstances  of  his  petitioners,  visited 
the  sick  in  their  beds,.  .  .  .  and  kept  a  regular  list  of 


102  SHELLET. 

industrious  poor,  whom  he  assisted  with  small  sums  to 
make  up  their  accounts."  At  Marlow,  the  miserable  con- 
dition of  the  lace-makers  called  forth  all  his  energies ;  and 
Mrs.  Shelley  tells  us  that  an  acute  ophthalmia,  from  which 
he  twice  suffered,  was  contracted  in  a  visit  to  their  cot- 
tages. A  story  told  by  Leigh  Hunt  about  his  finding-  * 
woman  ill  on  Ilampstead  Heath,  and  carrying  her  from 
door  to  door  in  the  vain  hopes  of  meeting  with  a  man  as 
charitable  as  himself,  until  he  had  to  house  the  poor  creat- 
ure with  his  friends  the  Hunts,  reads  like  a  practical  il- 
lustration of  Christ's  parable  about  the  Good  Samaritan. 
Nor  was  it  merely  to  the  so-called  poor  that  Shelley  show- 
ed his  generosity.  His  purse  was  always  open  to  his 
friends.  Peacock  received  from  him  an  annual  allowance 
of  1001.  He  gave  Leigh  Hunt,  on  one  occasion,  1400J. ; 
and  he  discharged  debts  of  Godwin,  amounting,  it  is  said, 
to  about  6000/.  In  his  pamphlet  on  Putting  Reform  to 
the  Vote,  he  offered  to  subscribe  100/.  for  the  purpose  of 
founding  an  association;  and  we  have  already  seen  that 
he  headed  the  Tremadoc  subscription  with  a  sum  of  500J. 
These  instances  of  his  generosity  might  be  easily  multi- 
plied; and  when  we  remember  that  his  present  income 
was  1000/.,  out  of  which  2  OO/.  went  to  the  support  of  his 
children,  it  will  be  understood  not  only  that  he  could  not 
live  luxuriously,  but  also  that  iie  was  in  frequent  money 
difficulties  through  the  necessity  of  raising  funds  upon  his 
expectations.  His  self-denial  in  all  minor  matters  of  ex- 
penditure was  conspicuous.  Without  a  murmur,  without 
ostentation,  this  heir  of  the  richest  baronet  in  Sussex  illus- 
trated by  his  own  conduct  those  principles  of  democratic 
simplicity  and  of  fraternal  charity  which  formed  his  polit- 
ical and  social  creed. 

A  glimpse  into  the  cottage  at  Great  Marlow  is  afforded 


T.]  LITE  AT  MARLOW.  103 

by  a  careless  sentence  of  Leigh  Hunt's.  "  He  used  to  sit 
in  a  study  adorned  with  casts,  as  large  as  life,  of  the 
Vatican  Apollo  and  the  celestial  Venus."  Fancy  Shelley 
with  his  bright  eyes  and  elf-locks  in  a  tiny,  low-roofed 
room,  correcting  proofs  of  Laon  and  Cythna,  between  the 
Apollo  of  the  Belvedere  and  the  Venus  de'  Medici,  life- 
sized,  and  as  crude  as  casts  by  Shout  could  make  them ! 
In  this  house,  Miss  Clairmont,  with  her  brother  and  Alle- 
gra,  lived  as  Shelley's  guests ;  and  here  Clara  Shelley  was 
born  on  the  3rd  of  September,  1817.  In  the  same  au- 
tumn, Shelley  suffered  from  a  severe  pulmonary  attack. 
The  critical  state  of  his  health,  and  the  apprehension, 
vouched  for  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  that  the  Chancellor  might 
lay  his  vulture's  talons  on  the  children  of  his  second  mar- 
riage, were  the  motives  which  induced  him  to  leave  Eng- 
land for  Italy  in  the  spring  of  1818.1  He  never  returned. 
Four  years  only  of  life  were  left  to  him — years  filled  with 
music  that  will  sound  as  long  as  English  lasts. 

It  was  on  the  llth  of  March  that  the  Shelley s  took 
their  departure  with  Miss  Clairmont  and  the  child  Allegra. 
They  went  straight  to  Milan,  and  after  visiting  the  Lake 
of  Como,  Pisa,  the  Bagni  di  Lucca,  Venice,  and  Rome, 
they  settled  early  in  the  following  December  at  Naples. 
Shelley's  letters  to  Peacock  form  the  invaluable  record  of 
this  period  of  his  existence.  Taken  altogether,  they  are 
the  most  perfect  specimens  of  descriptive  prose  in  the 
English  language ;  never  over-charged  with  colour,  vibrat- 
ing with  emotions  excited  by  the  stimulating  scenes  of 
Italy,  frank  in  criticism,  and  exquisitely  delicate  in  obser- 
vation. Their  transparent  sincerity  and  unpremeditated 
grace,  combined  with  natural  finish  of  expression,  make 

1  See  Note  on  Poems  of  181 9,  and  compare  the  lyric  "  The  billows 
oil  the  beach." 


104  SHELLEY,  [out 

them  masterpieces  of  a  style  at  once  familiar  and  elevated 
That  Shelley's  sensibility  to  art  was  not  so  highly  culti- 
vated as  his  feeling  for  nature,  is  clear  enough  in  many 
passages :  but  there  is  no  trace  of  admiring  to  order  in  his 
comments  upon  pictures  or  statues.  Familiarity  with  the 
great  works  of  antique  and  Italian  art  would  doubtless 
have  altered  some  of  the  opinions  he  at  first  expressed; 
just  as  longer  residence  among  the  people  made  him  mod- 
ify his  views  about  their  character.  Meanwhile,  the  spirit 
of  modest  and  unprejudiced  attention  in  which  he  began 
his  studies  of  sculpture  and  painting,  might  well  be  imi- 
tated in  the  present  day  by  travellers  who  think  that  to 
pin  their  faith  to  some  famous  critic's  verdict  is  the  acme 
of  good  taste.  If  there  were  space  for  a  long  quotation 
from  these  letters,  I  should  choose  the  description  of  Pom- 
peii (Jan.  26,  1819,  or  that  of  the  Baths  of  Caracalla 
(March  23, 1819).  As  it  is,  I  must  content  myself  with  a 
short  but  eminently  characteristic  passage,  written  from 
Ferrara,  Nov.  7, 1818 : — 

The  handwriting  of  Ariosto  is  a  small,  firm,  and  pointed  character, 
expressing,  as  I  should  say,  a  strong  and  keen,  but  circumscribed 
energy  of  mind ;  that  of  Tasso  is  large,  free,  and  flowing,  except  that 
there  is  a  checked  expression  in  the  midst  of  its  flow,  which  brings 
the  letters  into  a  smaller  compass  than  one  expected  from  the  begin- 
ning of  the  word.  It  is  the  symbol  of  an  intense  and  earnest  mind, 
exceeding  at  times  its  own  depth,  and  admonished  to  return  by  the 
chillness  of  the  waters  of  oblivion  striking  upon  its  adventurous  feet. 
You  know  I  always  seek  in  what  I  see  the  manifestation  of  something 
beyond  the  present  and  tangible  object ;  and  as  we  do  not  agree  in 
physiognomy,  so  we  may  not  agree  now.  But  my  business  is  to  re- 
late my  own  sensations,  and  not  to  attempt  to  inspire  others  with 
them. 

In  the  middle  of  August,  Shelley  left  his  wife  at  the 
Bagni  di  Lucca,  and  paid  a  visit  to  Lord  Byron  at  Venice 


T.]  LITE  AT  MARLOW.  106 

He  arrived  at  midnight  in  a  thunderstorm.  Julian  and 
Maddalo  was  the  literary  fruit  of  this  excursion — a  poem 
which  has  rightly  been  characterized  by  Mr.  Rossetti  as 
the  most  perfect  specimen  in  our  language  of  the  "poet- 
ical treatment  of  ordinary  things."  The  description  of  a 
Venetian  sunset,  touched  to  sadness  amid  all  its  splendour 
by  the  gloomy  presence  of  the  madhouse,  ranks  among 
Shelley's  finest  word-paintings;  while  the  glimpse  of 
Byron's  life  is  interesting  on  a  lower  level.  Here  is  the 
picture  of  the  sunset  and  the  island  of  San  Lazzaro : — 

Oh! 

How  beautiful  is  sunset,  when  the  glow 
Of  heaven  descends  upon  a  land  like  thee, 
Thou  paradise  of  exiles,  Italy, 
Thy  mountains,  seas,  and  vineyards,  and  the  towers 
Of  cities  they  encircle ! — It  was  ours 
To  stand  on  thee,  beholding  it :  and  then, 
Just  where  we  had  dismounted,  the  Count's  men 
Were  waiting  for  us  with  the  gondola. 
9     As  those  who  pause  on  some  delightful  way,     > 
Though  bent  on  pleasant  pilgrimage,  we  stood 
Looking  upon  the  evening,  and  the  flood 
Which  lay  between  the  city  and  the  shore, 
Paved  with  the  image  of  the  sky.    The  hoar 
And  airy  Alps,  towards  the  north,  appeared, 
Thro'  mist,  a  heaven-sustaining  bulwark,  reared 
Between  the  east  and  west ;  and  half  the  sky 
Was  roofed  with  clouds  of  rich  emblazonry, 
Dark  purple  at  the  zenith,  which  still  grew 
Down  the  steep  west  into  a  wondrous  hue 
Brighter  than  burning  gold,  even  to  the  rent 
Where  the  swift  sun  yet  paused  hi  his  descent 
Among  the  many-folded  hills.    They  were 
Those  famous  Euganean  hills,  which  bear, 
As  seen  from  Lido  through  the  harbour  pilea, 
The  likeness  of  a  clump  of  peaked  isles — 
H 


1M  SHELLEY.  [CHAP 

And  then,  as  if  the  earth  and  sea  had  been 

Dissolved  into  one  lake  of  fire,  were  Been 

Those  mountains  towering,  as  from  waves  of  flame, 

Around  the  vaporous  sun,  from  which  there  came 

The  inmost  purple  spirit  of  light,  and  made 

Their  very  peaks  transparent.     "  Ere  it  fade," 

Said  my  companion,  "  I  will  show  you  soon 

A  better  station."     So,  o'er  the  lagune 

We  glided ;  and  from  that  funereal  bark 

I  leaned,  and  saw  the  city,  and  could  mark 

How  from  their  many  isles,  in  evening's  gleam, 

Its  temples  and  its  palaces  did  seem 

Like  fabrics  of  enchantment  piled  to  heaven. 

I  was  about  to  speak,  when — "  We  are  even 

Now  at  the  point  I  meant,"  said  Maddalo, 

And  bade  the  gondolieri  cease  to  row. 

"  Look,  Julian,  on  the  west,  and  listen  well 

If  you  hear  not  a  deep  and  heavy  bell" 

I  looked,  and  saw  between  us  and  the  sun 

A  building  on  an  island,  such  a  one 

As  age  to  age  might  add,  for  uses  vile,— 

A  windowless,  deformed,  and  dreary  pile ; 

And  on  the  top  an  open  tower,  where  hung 

A  bell,  which  in  the  radiance  swayed  and  swung,— 

We  could  just  hear  its  coarse  and  iron  tongue : 

The  broad  sun  sank  behind  it,  and  it  tolled 

In  strong  and  black  relief — "  What  we  behold 

Shall  be  the  madhouse  and  its  belfry  tower," — 

Said  Maddalo ;  "  and  ever  at  this  hour, 

Those  who  may  cross  the  water  hear  that  bell, 

Which  calls  the  maniacs,  each  one  from  his  cell, 

To  vespers." 

It  may  be  parenthetically  observed  that  one  of  the  few 
familiar  quotations  from  Shelley's  poems  occurs  in  Julian 

and  Maddalo  : — 

Most  wretched  men 
Are  cradled  into  poetry  by  wrong : 
They  learn  in  suffering  what  they  teach  in  song. 


r.]  ITALY,  107 

Byron  lent  the  Shelleys  his  villa  of  the  Cappuccini  near 
Este,  where  they  spent  some  weeks  in  the  autumn.  Here 
Prometheus  Unbound  was  begun,  and  the  Lines  written 
among  Euganean  Hills  were  composed ;  and  here  Clara 
became  so  ill  that  her  parents  thought  it  necessary  to  rush 
for  medical  assistance  to  Venice.  They  had  forgotten 
their  passport ;  but  Shelley's  irresistible  energy  overcame 
all  difficulties,  and  they  entered  Venice  —  only  in  time, 
however,  for  the  child  to  die. 

Nearly  the  whole  of  the  winter  was  spent  in  Naples, 
where  Shelley  suffered  from  depression  of  more  than  or- 
dinary depth.  Mrs.  Shelley  attributed  this  gloom  to  the 
state  of  his  health ;  but  Medwin  tells  a  strange  story  r 
which,  if  it  is  not  wholly  a  romance,  may  better  account 
for  the  poet's  melancholy.  He  says  that  so  far  back  as 
the  year  1816,  on  the  night  before  his  departure  from 
London,  "  a  married  lady,  young,  handsome,  and  of  noble 
connexions,"  came  to  him,  avowed  the  passionate  love  she 
had  conceived  for  him,  and  proposed  that  they  should  fly 
together.1  He  explained  to  her  that  his  hand  and  heart 
had  both  been  given  irrevocably  to  another,  and,  after  the 
expression  of  the  most  exalted  sentiments  on  both  sides, 
they  parted.  She  followed  him,  however,  from  place  to 
place ;  and  without  intruding  herself  upon  his  notice, 
found  some  consolation  in  remaining  near  him.  Now  she 
arrived  at  Naples;  and  at  Naples  she  died.  The  web  of 
Shelley's  life  was  a  wide  one,  and  included  more  destinies 
than  his  own.  Godwin,  as  we  have  reason  to  believe,  at- 
tributed the  suicide  of  Fanny  Imlay  to  her  hopeless  Jove 
for  Shelley ;  and  the  tale  of  Harriet  has  been  already  told. 
Therefore  there  is  nothing  absolutely  improbable  in  Med- 

1  Medwin's  Life  of  Shelley,  vol.  i.  324.  His  date,  1814,  appears 
from  the  context  to  be  a  misprint. 


108  8HELLET.  [CHAP 

win's  story.,  especially  when  wo  remember  what  Hogg  half, 
humorously  tells  us  about  Shelley's  attraction  for  women 
in  London.  At  any  rate,  the  excessive  wretchedness  of 
the  lyrics  written  at  Naples  can  hardly  be  accounted  for 
by  the  "constant  and  poignant  physical  sufferings'*  of 
which  Mrs.  Shelley  speaks,  since  these  were  habitual  to 
him.  She  was  herself,  moreover,  under  the  impression 
that  he  was  concealing  something  from  her,  and  we  know 
from  her  own  words  in  another  place  that  his  "  fear  to 
wound  the  feelings  of  others  "  often  impelled  him  to  keep 
his  deepest  sorrows  to  himself.1 

All  this  while  his  health  was  steadily  improving.  The 
menace  of  consumption  was  removed  ;  and  though  he  suf- 
fered from  severe  attacks  of  pain  in  the  side,  the  cause  of 
this  persistent  malady  does  not  seem  to  have  been  ascer- 
tained. At  Naples  he  was  under  treatment  for  disease  of 
the  liver.  Afterwards,  his  symptoms  were  ascribed  to  ne- 
phritis ;  and  it  is  certain  that  his  greater  or  less  freedom 
from  uneasiness  varied  with  the  quality  of  the  water  he 
drank.  He  was,  for  instance,  forced  to  eschew  the  drink- 
ing water  of  Ravenna,  because  it  aggravated  his  symptoms; 
while  Florence,  for  a  similar  reason,  proved  an  unsuitable 
residence.  The  final  settlement  of  the  Shelleys  at  Pisa 
seems  to  have  been  determined  by  the  fact  that  the  water 
of  that  place  agreed  with  him.  That  the  spasms  which 
from  time  to  time  attacked  him  were  extremely  serious, 
is  abundantly  proved  by  the  testimony  of  those  who  lived 
with  him  at  this  period,  and  by  his  own  letters.  Some 
relief  was  obtained  by  mesmerism,  a  remedy  suggested  by 
Medwin ;  but  the  obstinacy  of  the  torment  preyed  upon 
his  spirits  to  such  an  extent,  that  even  during  the  last 
months  of  his  life  we  find  him  begging  Trelawny  to  pro- 

1  Note  on  the  Revolt  of  Islam. 


T.]  ITALY.  109 

cnre  him  prussic  acid  as  a  final  and  effectual  remedy  for  all 
the  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to.  It  may  be  added  that  mental 
application  increased  the  mischief,  for  he  told  Leigh  Hunt 
that  the  composition  of  The  Cenci  had  cost  him  a  fresh 
seizure.  Yet  though  his  sufferings  were  indubitably  real, 
the  eminent  physician,  Vacca,  could  discover  no  organic 
disease ;  and  possibly  Trelawny  came  near  the  truth  when 
he  attributed  Shelley's  spasms  to  insufficient  and  irregular 
diet,  and  to  a  continual  over-taxing  of  his  nervous  system. 
Mrs.  Shelley  states  that  the  change  from  England  to 
Italy  was  in  all  respects  beneficial  to  her  husband.  She 
was  inclined  to  refer  the  depression  from  which  he  occa- 
sionally suffered,  to  his  solitary  habits ;  and  there  are  sev- 
eral passages  in  his  own  letters  which  connect  his  melan- 
choly with  solitude.  It  is  obvious  that  when  he  found 
himself  in  the  congenial  company  of  Trelawny,  Williams, 
Medwin,  or  the  Gisbornes,  he  was  simply  happy;  and 
nothing  could  be  further  from  the  truth  than  to  paint 
him  as  habitually  sunk  in  gloom.  On  the  contrary,  we 
hear  quite  as  much  about  his  high  spirits,  his  "  Homeric 
laughter,"  his  playfulness  with  children,  his  readiness  to 
join  in  the  amusements  of  his  chosen  circle,  and  his  in- 
comparable conversation,  as  we  do  about  his  solitary 
broodings,  and  the  seasons  when  pain  or  bitter  memories 
over-cast  his  heaven.  Byron,  who  had  some  right  to  ex- 
press a  judgment  in  such  a  matter,  described  him  as  the 
most  companionable  man  under  the  age  of  thirty  he  had 
ever  met  with.  Shelley  rode  and  practised  pistol-shoot- 
ing with  his  brother  bard,  sat  up  late  to  talk  with  him, 
enjoyed  his  jokes,  and  even  betted  with  him  on  one  occa- 
sion marked  by  questionable  taste.  All  this  is  quite  in- 
compatible with  that  martyrdom  to  persecution,  remorse, 
or  physical  suffering,  with  which  it  has  pleased  some  ro- 


1 10  SHELLET.  [our. 

mantic  persons  to  invest  the  poet.  Society  of  the  ordi- 
nary kind  he  hated.  The  voice  of  a  stranger,  or  a  ring 
at  the  house-bell,  heard  from  afar  with  Shelley's  almost 
inconceivable  quickness  of  perception,  was  enough  to 
make  him  leave  the  house;  and  one  of  his  prettiest  po- 
ems is  written  on  his  mistaking  his  wife's  mention  of  the 
Aziola,  a  little  owl  common  enough  in  Tuscany,  for  an  al- 
lusion to  a  tiresome  visitor.  This  dislike  for  intercourse 
with  commonplace  people  was  the  source  of  some  disa- 
greement between  him  and  Mrs.  Shelley,  and  kept  him 
further  apart  from  Byron  than  he  might  otherwise  have 
been.  In  a  valuable  letter  recently  published  by  Mr. 
Garnett,  he  writes : — "  I  detest  all  society — almost  all,  at 
least — and  Lord  Byron  is  the  nucleus  of  all  that  is  hate- 
ful and  tiresome  in  it."  And  again,  speaking  about  his 
wife  to  Trelawny,  he  said : — "  She  can't  bear  solitude,  nor 
I  society — the  quick  coupled  with  the  dead." 

In  the  year  1818-19  the  Shelley s  had  no  friends  at  all 
in  Italy,  except  Lord  Byron  at  Venice,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
John  Gisborne  at  Leghorn.  Mrs.  Gisbornc  had  been  a 
friend  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft  and  Godwin.  She  was  a 
woman  of  much  cultivation,  devoid  of  prejudice,  and, 
though  less  enthusiastic  than  Shelley  liked,  quite  capable 
of  appreciating  the  inestimable  privilege  of  his  acquaint- 
ance. Her  husband,  to  use  a  now  almost  obsolete  phrase, 
was  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman.  He  shared  his  wife's 
enlightened  opinions,  and  remained  stanch  through  good 
and  ill  report  to  his  new  friends.  At  Rome  and  Naples 
they  knew  absolutely  no  one.  Shelley's  time  was  there- 
fore passed  in  study  and  composition.  In  the  previous 
summer  he  had  translated  the  Symposium  of  Plato,  and 
b«gnn  an  essay  on  the  Ethics  of  the  Greeks,  which  re- 
mains unluckily  a  fragment.  Together  with  Mary  he 


v.]  ITALY.  Ill 

read  much  Italian  literature,  and  his  observations  on  the 
chief  Italian  poets  form  a  valuable  contribution  to  their 
criticism.  While  he  admired  the  splendour  and  inven- 
tion of  Ariosto,  he  could  not  tolerate  his  moral  tone. 
Tasso  struck  him  as  cold  and  artificial,  in  spite  of  his 
"  delicate  moral  sensibility."  Boccaccio  he  preferred  to 
both;  and  his  remarks  on  this  prose -poet  arc  extreme- 
ly characteristic.  "  How  much  do  I  admire  Boccaccio ! 
What  descriptions  of  nature  are  those  in  his  little  intro- 
ductions to  every  new  day !  It  is  the  morning  of  life 
stripped  of  that  mist  of  familiarity  which  makes  it  ob- 
scure to  us.  Boccaccio  seems  to  me  to  have  possessed  a 
deep  sense  of  the  fair  ideal  of  human  life,  considered  in 
its  social  relations.  His  more  serious  theories  of  love 
agree  especially  with  mine.  He  often  expresses  things 
lightly  too,  which  have  serious  meanings  of  a  very  beau- 
tiful kind.  He  is  a  moral  casuist,'  the  opposite  of  the 
Christian,  stoical,  ready-made,  and  worldly  system  of 
morals.  Do  you  remember  one  little  remark,  or  rather 
maxim  of  his,  which  might  do  some  good  to  the  common, 
narrow-minded  conceptions  of  love, — 'Bocca  baciata  non 
perde  ventura ;  anzi  rinnuova,  come  fa  la  luna '  ?"  Dante 
and  Petrarch  remained  the  objects  of  his  lasting  admira- 
tion, though  the  cruel  Christianity  of  the  Inferno  seemed 
to  him  an  ineradicable  blot  upon  the  greatest  of  Italian 
poems.  Of  Petrarch's  "  tender  and  solemn  enthusiasm," 
he  speaks  with  the  sympathy  of  one  who  understood  the 
inner  mysteries  of  idealizing  love. 

It  will  be  gathered  from  the  foregoing  quotations  that 
Shelley,  notwithstanding  his  profound  study  of  style  and 
his  exquisite  perception  of  beauty  in  form  and  rhythm, 
required  more  than  merely  artistic  excellences  in  poetry. 
He  judged  poems  by  their  content  and  spirit ;  and  while 
34 


112  SHELLEY.  [CHAF. 

he  plainly  expressed  his  abhorrence  of  the  didactic  man- 
ner, he  held  that  art  must  be  moralized  in  order  to  be 
truly  great.  The  distinction  he  drew  between  Theocritus 
and  the  earlier  Greek  singers  in  the  Defence  of  Poetry,  his 
severe  strictures  on  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen  in  a  letter 
to  Mary  (Aug.  20,  1818),  and  his  phrase  about  Ariosto, 
"  who  is  entertaining  and  graceful,  and  sometimes  a  poet," 
illustrate  the  application  of  critical  canons  wholly  at  vari- 
ance with  the  "  art  for  art "  doctrine. 

While  studying  Italian,  he  continued  faithful  to  Greek. 
Plato  was  often  in  his  hands,  and  the  dramatists  formed 
his  almost  inseparable  companions.  How  deeply  he  felt 
the  art  of  the  Homeric  poems,  may  be  gathered  from  the 
following  extract : — "  I  congratulate  you  on  your  conquest 
of  the  Iliad.  You  must  have  been  astonished  at  the  per- 
petually increasing  magnificence  of  the  last  seven  books. 
Homer  there  truly  begins  to  be  himself.  The  battle  of 
the  Scamander,  the  funeral  of  Patroclus,  and  the  high  and 
solemn  close  of  the  whole  bloody  tale  in  tenderness  and 
inexpiable  sorrow,  are  wrought  in  a  manner  incomparable 
with  anything  of  the  same  kind.  The  Odyssey  is  sweet, 
but  there  is  nothing  like  this."  About  this  time,  prompt- 
ed by  Mrs.  Gisborne,  he  began  the  study  of  Spanish,  and 
conceived  an  ardent  admiration  for  Calderon,  whose  splen- 
did and  supernatural  fancy  tallied  with  his  own.  "  I  am 
bathing  myself  in  the  light  and  odour  of  the  starry  Au- 
tos," he  writes  to  Mr.  Gisborne  in  the  autumn  of  1820. 
Faust,  too,  was  a  favourite.  "I  have  been  reading  over 
and  over  again  Faust,  and  always  with  sensations  which 
no  other  composition  excites.  It  deepens  the  gloom  and 
augments  the  rapidity  of  ideas,  and  would  therefore  seem 
to  me  an  unfit  study  for  any  person  who  is  a  prey  to  the 
reproaches  of  memory,  and  the  delusions  of  an  imagina- 


v.]  ITALY.  113 

tion  not  to  be  restrained."  The  profound  impression 
made  upon  him  by  Margaret's  story  is  expressed  in  two 
letters  about  Retzsch's  illustrations: — "The  artist  makes 
one  envy  his  happiness  that  he  can  sketch  such  things 
with  calmness,  which  I  only  dared  look  upon  once,  and 
which  made  my  brain  swim  round  only  to  touch  the  leaf 
on  the  opposite  side  of  which  I  knew  that  it  was  figured." 
The  fruits  of  this  occupation  with  Greek,  Italian,  Span- 
ish, and  German  were  Shelley's  translations  from  Homer 
and  Euripides,  from  Dante,  from  Calderon's  Magico  Pro- 
digioso,  and  from  Faust,  translations  which  have  never 
been  surpassed  for  beauty  of  form  and  complete  transfu- 
sion of  the  spirit  of  one  literature  into  the  language  of 
another.  On  translation,  however,  he  set  but  little  store, 
asserting  that  he  only  undertook  it  when  he  "  could  do 
absolutely  nothing  else,"  and  writing  earnestly  to  dissuade 
Leigh  Hunt  from  devoting  time  which  might  be  better 
spent,  to  work  of  subordinate  importance.1  The  follow- 
ing version  of  a  Greek  epigram  on  Plato's  spirit  will  illus- 
trate his  own  method  of  translation : — 

Eagle !  why  soarest  thou  above  that  tomb  ? 
To  what  sublime  and  star-y-paven  home 

Floatest  thou  ? 

I  am  the  image  of  swift  Plato's  spirit, 
Ascending  heaven : — Athens  does  inherit 

His  corpse  below. 

Some  time  in  the  year  1820-21,  he  composed  the  De- 
fence of  Poetry,  stimulated  to  this  undertaking  by  his 
friend  Peacock's  article  on  poetry,  published  in  the  Liter- 
ary Miscellany.*  This  essay  not  only  sets  forth  his  theo- 
ry of  his  own  art,  but  it  also  contains  some  of  his  finest 

J  Letter  from  Florence,  Nov.,  1819. 

*  See  Letter  to  Oilier,  Jan.  20, 1820,  Shelley  Memorials,  p.  135. 
6 


114  SIIELLEY.  [CHAP. 

prose  writing,  of  which  the  following   passage,  valuable 
alike  for  matter  and  style,  may  be  cited  as  a  specimen : — 

The  functions  of  the  poetical  faculty  are  two-fold ;  by  one  it  cre- 
ates new  materials  of  knowledge,  and  power,  and  pleasure ;  by  the 
other  it  engenders  in  the  mind  a  desire  to  reproduce  and  arrange 
them  according  to  a  certain  rhythm  and  order  which  may  be  called 
the  beautiful  and  the  good.  The  cultivation  of  poetry  is  never  more 
to  be  desired  than  at  periods  when,  from  an  excess  of  the  selfish  and 
calculating  principle,  the  accumulation  of  the  materials  of  external 
life  exceed  the  quantity  of  the  power  of  assimilating  them  to  the  in- 
ternal laws  of  human  nature.  The  body  has  then  become  too  un- 
wieldy for  that  which  animates  it. 

Poetry  is  indeed  something  divine.  It  is  at  once  the  centre  and 
circumference  of  knowledge ;  it  is  that  which  comprehends  all  sci- 
ence, and  that  to  which  all  science  must  be  referred.  It  is  at  the 
game  time  the  root  and  blossom  of  all  other  systems  of  thought ;  it 
is  that  from  which  all  spring,  and  that  which  adorns  all ;  and  that 
which,  if  blighted,  denies  the  fruit  and  the  seed,  and  withholds  from 
the  barren  world  the  nourishment  and  the  succession  of  the  scions  of 
the  tree  of  life.  It  is  the  perfect  and  consummate  surface  and  bloom 
of  all  things ;  it  is  as  the  odour  and  the  colour  of  the  rose  to  the 
texture  of  the  elements  which  compose  it,  as  the  form  and  splendour 
of  unfaded  beauty  to  the  secrets  of  anatomy  and  corruption.  What 
were  virtue^love,  patriotism,  friendship — what  were  the  scenery  of 
this  beautiful  universe  which  we  inhabit — what  were  our  consola- 
tions on  this  side  of  the  grave — and  what  were  our  aspirations  be- 
yond it,  if  poetry  did  not  ascend  to  bring  light  and  fire  from  those 
eternal  regions  where  the  owl-winged  faculty  of  calculation  dare  not 
ever  soar  ?  Poetry  is  not  like  reasoning,  a  power  to  be  exerted  ac- 
cording to  the  determination  of  the  will.  A  man  cannot  say,  "I 
will  compose  poetry."  The  greatest  poet  even  cannot  say  it;  for 
the  mind  in  creation  is  as  a  fading  coal,  which  some  invisible  influ- 
ence, like  an  inconstant  wind,  awakens  to  transitory  brightness ;  this 
power  arises  from  within,  like  the  colour  of  a  flower  which  fades  and 
changes  as  it  is  developed,  and  the  conscious  portions  of  our  natures 
are  unprophetic  either  of  its  approach  or  its  departure.  Could  this 
influence  be  durable  in  its  original  purity  and  force,  it  is  impossible 
to  predict  the  greatness  of  the  results ;  but  when  composition  begins, 


v.]  ITALY.  118 

inspiration  is  already  on  the  decline,  and  the  most  glorious  poetry 
that  has  ever  been  communicated  to  the  world  is  probably  a  feeble 
shadow  of  the  original  conceptions  of  the  poet.  I  appeal  to  the 
greatest  poets  of  the  present  day,  whether  it  is  not  an  error  to  assert 
that  the  finest  passages  of  poetry  are  produced  by  labour  and  study. 
The  toil  and  the  delay  recommended  by  critics,  can  be  justly  inter- 
preted to  mean  no  more  than  a  careful  observation  of  the  inspired 
moments,  and  an  artificial  connexion  of  the  spaces  between  their 
suggestions  by  the  intermixture  of  conventional  expressions ;  a  ne- 
cessity only  imposed  by  the  limitedness  of  the  poetical  faculty  itself ; 
for  Milton  conceived  the  "  Paradise  Lost "  as  a  whole  before  he  exe- 
cuted it  in  portions.  We  have  his  own  authority  also  for  the  muse 
having  "  dictated  "  to  him  the  "  unpremeditated  song."  And  let  this 
be  an  answer  to  those  who  would  allege  the  fifty-six  various  read- 
ings of  the  first  line  of  the  "Orlando  Furioso."  Compositions  so 
produced  are  to  poetry  what  mosaic  is  to  painting.  This  instinct 
and  intuition  of  the  poetical  faculty  is  still  more  observable  in  the 
plastic  and  pictorial  arts ;  a  great  statue  or  picture  grows  under  the 
power  of  the  artist  as  a  child  in  the  mother's  womb ;  and  the  very 
mind  which  directs  the  hands  in  formation  is  incapable  of  accounting 
to  itself  for  the  origin,  the  gradations,  or  the  media  of  the  process. 

Poetry  is  the  record  of  the  best  and  happiest  moments  of  the 
happiest  and  best  minds.  We  are  aware  of  evanescent  visitations 
of  thought  and  feeling  sometimes  associated  with  place  or  person, 
sometimes  regarding  our  own  mind  alone,  and  always  arising  unfore- 
seen and  departing  unbidden,  but  elevating  and  delightful  beyond 
all  expression :  so  that  even  in  the  desire  and  the  regret  they  leave, 
there  cannot  but  be  pleasure,  participating  as  it  does  in  the  nature  of 
its  object.  It  is  as  it  were  the  interpenetration  of  a  diviner  nature 
through  our  own ;  but  its  footsteps  are  like  those  of  a  wind  over  the 
sea,  which  the  coming  calm  erases,  and  whose  traces  remain  only,  as 
on  the  wrinkled  sand  which  paves  it.  These  and  -corresponding  con- 
ditions of  being  are  experienced  principally  by  those  of  the  most  del- 
icate sensibility  and  the  most  enlarged  imagination;  and  the  state 
of  mind  produced  by  them  is  at  war  with  every  base  desire.  The 
enthusiasm  of  virtue,  love,  patriotism,  and  friendship,  is  essentially 
linked  with  such  emotions ;  and  whilst  they  last,  self  appears  as 
what  it  is,  an  atom  to  a  universe.  Poets  are  not  only  subject  to 
these  experiences  as  spirits  of  the  most  refined  organization,  but 


110  SHELLET.  . 

they  can  colour  all  that  they  combine  with  the  evanescent  hues  of 
this  ethereal  world ;  a  word,  a  trait  in  the  representation  of  a  scene 
or  a  passion,  will  touch  the  enchanted  chord,  and  reanimate,  in  those 
who  have  ever  experienced  these  emotions,  the  sleeping,  the  cold,  the 
buried  image  of  the  past.  Poetry  thus  makes  immortal  all  that  is 
best  and  most  beautiful  in  the  world ;  it  arrests  the  vanishing  appa- 
ritions which  haunt  the  interlunations  of  life,  and  veiling  them,  or 
in  language  or  in  form,  sends  them  forth  among  mankind,  bearing 
sweet  news  of  kindred  joy  to  those  with  whom  their  sisters  abide — 
abide,  because  there  is  no  portal  of  expression  from  the  caverns  of 
the  spirit  which  they  inhabit  into  the  universe  of  things.  Poetry  re- 
deems from  decay  the  visitations  of  the  divinity  in  man. 

In  the  midst  of  these  aesthetic  studies,  and  while  pro- 
ducing his  own  greatest  works,  Shelley  was  not  satisfied 
that  his  genius  ought  to  be  devoted  to  poetry.  "  I  con- 
sider poetry,"  he  wrote  to  Peacock,  January  26th,  1819, 
"  very  subordinate  to  moral  and  political  science,  and  if  I 
were  well,  certainly  I  would  aspire  to  the  latter ;  for  I  can 
conceive  a  great  work,  embodying  the  discoveries  of  all 
ages,  and  harmonizing  the  contending  creeds  by  which 
mankind  have  been  ruled.  Far  from  me  is  such  an  at- 
tempt, and  I  shall  be  content,  by  exercising  my  fancy,  to 
amuse  myself,  and  perhaps  some  others,  and  cast  what 
weight  I  can  into  the  scale  of  that  balance  which  the 
Giant  of  Arthegall  holds."  Whether  he  was  right  in  the 
conviction  that  his  genius  was  no  less  fitted  for  metaphys- 
ical speculation  or  for  political  science  than  for  poetry,  is 
a  question  that  admits  of  much  debate.1  We  have  noth- 
ing but  fragments  whereby  to  form  a  definite  opinion — 
the  unfinished  Defence  of  Poetry,  the  unfinished  Essay  on 
a  Future  State,  the  unfinished  Essay  on  Christianity,  the 
unfinished  Essay  on  the  Punishment  of  Death,  and  the 

1  See  Mrs.  Shelley's  note  on  the  Revolt  of  Islam,  and  the  whole 
Preface  to  the  Prose  Works. 


r.]  ITALY.  117 

scattered  Speculations  on  Metaphysics.  None  of  these 
compositions  justify  the  belief  so  confidently  expressed  by 
Mrs.  Shelley  in  her  Preface  to  the  prose  works,  that  "  had 
not  Shelley  deserted  metaphysics  for  poetry  in  his  youth, 
and  had  he  not  been  lost  to  us  early,  so  that  all  his  vaster 
projects  were  wrecked  with  him  in  the  waves,  he  would 
have  presented  the  world  with  a  complete  theory  of  mind ; 
a  theory  to  which  Berkeley,  Coleridge,  and  Kant  would 
have  contributed;  but  more  simple,  unimpugnable,  and 
entire  than  the  systems  of  these  writers."  Their  incom- 
pleteness rather  tends  to  confirm  what  she  proceeds  to 
state,  that  the  strain  of  philosophical  composition  was  too 
great  for  his  susceptible  nerves ;  while  her  further  obser- 
vation that  "thought  kindled  imagination  and  awoke  sen- 
sation, and  rendered  him  dizzy  from  too  great  keenness  of 
emotion,"  seems  to  indicate  that  his  nature  was  primarily 
that  of  a  poet  deeply  tinctured  with  philosophical  specula- 
tion, rather  than  that  of  a  metaphysician  warmed  at  inter- 
vals to  an  imaginative  fervour.  Another  of  her  remarks 
confirms  us  in  this  opinion.  "  He  considered  these  phil- 
osophical views  of  mind  and  nature  to  be  instinct  with 
the  intensest  spirit  of  poetry."1  This  is  the  position  of 
the  poet  rather  than  the  analyst ;  and,  on  the  whole,  we 
are  probably  justified  in  concluding  with  Mrs.  Shelley, 
that  he  followed  a  true  instinct  when  he  dedicated  himself 
to  poetry,  and  trained  his  powers  in  that  direction.*  To 
dogmatize  upon  the  topic  would  be  worse  than  foolish. 
There  was  something  incalculable,  incommensurable,  and 
daemonic  in  Shelley's  genius;  and  what  he  might  have 
achieved,  had  his  life  been  spared  and  had  his  health  pro- 
gressively improved,  it  is  of  course  impossible  to  say. 

1  Note  on  Prometheus. 
*  Note  on  Revolt  of  Islam. 


118  8HELLET.  [our. 

In  the  spring  of  1819  the  Shelley*  settled  in  Rome, 
where  th'e  poet  proceeded  with  the  composition  of  Pro- 
jin't/H'us  Unbound.  lie  used  to  write  among  the  ruins 
of  the  Baths  of  Caracalla,  not  then,  as  now,  despoiled  of 
all  their  natural  beauty,  but  waving  with  the  Paradise  of 
flowers  and  shrubs  described  in  his  incomparable  letter  of 
March  the  23rd  to  Peacock.  Rome,  however,  was  not 
destined  to  retain  them  long.  On  the  7th  of  June  they 
lost  their  son  William  after  a  short  illness.  Shelley  loved 
this  child  intensely,  and  sat  by  his  bedside  for  sixty  hours 
without  taking  rest.  He  was  now  practically  childless ; 
and  his  grief  found  expression  in  many  of  his  poems,  es- 
pecially in  the  fragment  headed  "Roma,  Roma,  Roma! 
non  e  piu  com1  era  prima"  William  was  buried  in  the 
Protestant  cemetery,  of  which  Shelley  had  written  a  de- 
scription to  Peacock  in  the  previous  December.  "The 
English  burying-place  is  a  green  slope  near  the  walls,  un- 
der the  pyramidal  tomb  of  Cestius,  and  is,  I  think,  the 
most  beautiful  and  solemn  cemetery  I  ever  beheld.  To 
see  the  sun  shining  on  its  bright  grass,  fresh,  when  we 
first  visited  it,  with  the  autumnal  dews,  and  hear  the  whis- 
pering of  the  wind  among  the  leaves  of  the  trees  which 
have  overgrown  the  tomb  of  Cestius,  and  the  soil  which 
is  stirring  in  the  sun-warm  earth,  and  to  mark  the  tombs, 
mostly  of  women  and  young  people  who  were  buried 
there,  one  might,  if  one  were  to  die,  desire  the  sleep  they 
seem  to  sleep.  Such  is  the  human  mind,  and  so  it  peo- 
ples with  its  wishes  vacancy  and  oblivion." 

Escaping  from  the  scene  of  so  much  sorrow,  they  estab- 
lished themselves  at  the  Villa  Valsovano,  near  Leghorn. 
Here  Shelley  began  and  finished  The  Cenci  at  the  instance 
of  his  wife,  who  rightly  thought  that  he  undervalued  his 
own  powers  as  a  dramatic  poet.  The  supposed  portrait 


v.]  ITALY.  119 

of  Beatrice  in  the  Barberini  Palace  had  powerfully  affect- 
ed his  imagination,  and  he  fancied  that  her  story  would 
form  the  fitting  subject  for  a  tragedy.  It  is  fortunate 
for  English  literature  that  the  real  facts  of  that  domestic 
drama,  as  recently  published  by  Signer  Bertolotti,  were 
then  involved  in  a  tissue  of  romance  and  legend.  During 
this  summer  he  saw  a  great  deal  of  the  Gisborne  family. 
Mrs.  Gisborne' s  son  by  a  previous  marriage,  Henry  Reve- 
ley,  was  an  engineer,  and  Shelley  conceived  a  project  of 
helping  him  to  build  a  steamer  which  should  ply  between 
Leghorn  and  Marseilles.  He  was  to  supply  the  funds, 
and  the  pecuniary  profit  was  to  be  shared  by  the  Gisborne 
family.  The  scheme  eventually  fell  through,  though  Shel- 
ley spent  a  good  deal  of  money  upon  it ;  and  its  only  im- 
portance is  the  additional  light  it  throws  upon  his  pub- 
lic and  private  benevolence.  From  Leghorn  the  Shelleys 
removed  in  the  autumn  to  Florence,  where,  on  the  12th 
of  November,  the  present  Sir  Percy  Florence  Shelley  was 
born.  Here  Shelley  wrote  the  last  act  of  Prometheus 
Unbound,  which,  though  the  finest  portion  of  that  unique 
drama,  seems  to  have  been  an  afterthought.  In  the  Cas- 
cine  outside  Florence  he  also  composed  the  Ode  to  the 
West  Wind,  the  most  symmetrically  perfect  as  well  as  the 
most  impassioned  of  his  minor  lyrics.  He  spent  much 
time  in  the  galleries,  made  notes  upon  the  principal  an- 
tique statues,  and  formed  a  plan  of  systematic  art-study. 
The  climate,  however,  disagreed  with  him,  and  in  the 
month  of  January,  1820,  they  took  up  their  abode  at  Pisa. 
1819  was  the  most  important  year  in  Shelley's  life,  so 
far  as  literary  production  is  concerned.  Besides  The  Cen- 
ci  and  Prometheus  Unbound,  of  which  it  yet  remains  to 
speak,  this  year  saw  the  production  of  several  political  and 
satirical  poems — the  Masque  of  Anarchy,  suggested  by  the 


120  SHELLEY.  [CHAP 

news  of  the  Peterloo  massacre,  being  by  far  the  most  im- 
portant. Shelley  attempted  the  composition  of  short  pop- 
ular songs  which  should  stir  the  English  people  to  a  sense 
of  what  he  felt  to  be  their  degradation.  But  he  lacked 
the  directness  which  alone  could  make  such  verses  forci- 
ble, and  the  passionate  apostrophe  to  the  Men  of  England 
in  his  Masque  of  Anarchy  marks  the  highest  point  of  his 
achievement  in  this  style : — 

Men  of  England,  Heirs  of  Glory, 
Heroes  of  unwritten  story, 
Nurslings  of  one  mighty  mother, 
Hopes  of  her,  and  one  another ! 

Rise,  like  lions  after  slumber, 
In  unvanquishable  number, 
Shake  your  chains  to  earth  like  dew, 
Which  in  sleep  had  fall'n  on  you. 
Ye  are  many,  they  are  few. 

Peter  Bell  the  Third,  written  in  this  year,  and  Swell- 
foot  the  Tyrant,  composed  in  the  following  autumn,  are 
remarkable  as  showing  with  what  keen  interest  Shelley 
watched  public  affairs  in  England  from  his  exile  home; 
but,  for  my  own  part,  I  cannot  agree  with  those  critics  who 
esteem  their  humour  at  a  high  rate.  The  political  poems 
may  profitably  be  compared  with  his  contemporary  cor- 
respondence ;  with  the  letters,  for  instance,  to  Leigh  Hunt, 
November  23rd,  1819;  and  to  Mr.  John  Gisborne,  April 
10th,  1822 ;  and  with  an  undated  fragment  published  by 
Mr.  Garnett  in  the  Relics  of  Shelley,  page  84.  No  stu- 
dent of  English  political  history  before  the  Reform  Bill 
can  regard  his  apprehensions  of  a  great  catastrophe  as  ill- 
founded.  His  insight  into  the  real  danger  to  the  nation 
was  as  penetrating  as  his  suggestion  of  a  remedy  was  mod- 
erate. Those  who  are  accustomed  to  think  of  the  poet  a* 


v.]  ITALY.  121 

a  visionary  enthusiast,  will  rub  their  eyes  when  they  read 
the  sober  lines  in  which  he  warns  his  friend  to  be  cautious 
about  the  security  offered  by  the  English  Funds.  Another 
letter,  dated  Lerici,  June  29, 1822,  illustrates  the  same  prac- 
tical temper  of  mind,  the  same  logical  application  of  polit- 
ical principles  to  questions  of  public  economy. 

That  Prometheus  Unbound  and  The  Cenci  should  have 
been  composed  in  one  and  the  same  year  must  be  reck- 
oned among  the  greatest  wonders  of  literature,  not  only  be- 
cause of  their  sublime  greatness,  but  also  because  of  their 
essential  difference.  ^Eschylus,  it  is  well  known,  had  writ- 
ten a  sequel  to  his  Prometheus  Bound,  in  which  he  showed 
the  final  reconciliation  between  Zeus,  the  oppressor,  and 
Prometheus,  the  champion,  of  humanity.  What  that  rec- 
onciliation was,  we  do  not  know,  because  the  play  is  lost, 
and  the  fragments  are  too  brief  for  supporting  any  prob- 
able hypothesis.  But  Shelley  repudiated  the  notion  of 
compromise.  He  could  not  conceive  of  the  Titan  "  unsay- 
ing his  high  language,  and  quailing  before  his  successful 
and  perfidious  adversary."  He,  therefore,  approached  the 
theme  of  liberation  from  a  wholly  different  point  of  view. 
Prometheus  injris  drama  is  the  humane  vindicator  of  love. 
justice,  and  liberty,  as  o~pposed  to  Jove,  thejbyrannkal  op- 
pressor, and  creator  of  all  evil  by  his  selfish  rule.  Prome- 
theus is  the  mind  of  man  idealized,  the  spirit  of  our  race, 
as  Shelley  thought  it  made  to  be.  Jove  is  the  incarnation 
of  all  that  thwarts  its  free  development.  Thus  counter- 
posed,  the  two  chief  actors  represent  the  fundamental  an- 
titheses of  good  and  evil,  liberty  and  despotism,  love  and 
hate.  They  give  the  form  of  personality  to  Shelley's 
Ormuzd  -  Ahriman  dualism  already  expressed  in  the  first 
canto  of  Laon  and  Cythna ;  but,  instead  of  being  repre- 
sented on  the  theatre  of  human  life,  the  strife  is  now  re* 
I  *6 


122  SHELLEY.  [oiur. 

moved  into  the  reign  of  abstractions,  vivified  by  mythopo- 
etry.  Prometheus  resists  Jove  to  the  uttermost,  endures 
all  torments,  physical  and  moral,  that  the  tyrant  plagues 
him  with,  secure  in  his  own  strength,  and  calmly  expectant 
of  an  hour  which  shall  hurl  Jove  from  heaven,  and  leave 
the  spirit  of  good  triumphant.  That  hour  arrives ;  Jove 
disappears ;  the  burdens  of  the  world  and  men  are  sud- 
denly removed ;  a  new  age  of  peace  and  freedom  and  il- 
limitable energy  begins;  the  whole  universe  partakes  in 
the  emancipation  ;  the  spirit  of  the  earth  no  longer  groans 
in  pain,  but  sings  alternate  love-songs  with  his  sister  orb, 
the  moon;  Prometheus  is  re-united  in  indissoluble  bonds 
to  his  old  love,  Asia.  J^ai»f  withdrawn  from  sight  during 
the  first  act,  but  spoken  of  as  waiting  in  her  exile  for  the 
fated  hour,  isthe  true_jaato_flf_tbe  hmnaa  ipirit.  She  is 
the  fairest  daughter  of  Earth  and  Ocean.  Like  Aphrodite, 
she  rises  in  the  ^Egean  near  the  land  called  by  her  name ; 
and  in  the  time  of  tribulation  she  dwells  in  a  far  Indian 
vale.  She  is  the  Idea  of  Beauty  incarnate,  the  shadow  of 
the  Light  of  Life  which  sustains  the  world  and  enkindles 
it  with  love,  the  reality  of  Alastor's  vision,  the  breathing 
image  of  the  awful  loveliness  apostrophized  in  the  Hymn 
to  Intellectual  Beauty,  the  reflex  of  the  splendour  of  which 
Adonais  was  a  part.  At  the  moment  of  her  triumph  she 
grows  so  beautiful  that  lone  her  sister  cannot  see  her,  only 
feels  her  influence.  The  essential  thought  of  Shelley's 
creed  was  that  the  universe  is  penetrated,  vitalized,  made 
real  by  a  spirit,  which  he  sometimes  called  the  spirit  of 
Nature,  but  which  is  always  conceived  as  more  than  Life, 
as  that  which  gives  its  actuality  to  Life,  and  lastly  as  Love 
and  Beauty.  To  adore  this  spirit,  to  clasp  it  with  affec- 
tion, and  to  blend  with  it,  is,  he  thought,  the  true  object 
of  man.  Therefore,  the  final  union  of  Prometheus  with 


y.]  ITALY.  123 

Asia  is  the  consummation  of  human  destinies.  Love  was 
the  only  law  Shelley  recognized.  Unterrified  by  the  grim 
realities  of  pain  and  crime  revealed  in  nature  and  society, 
he  held  fast  to  the  belief  that,  if  we  could  but  pierce  to 
the  core  of  things,  if  we  could  but  bp  what,  wq  jpinrM^Ko 

the  wnrld  fl^fl  MM  'would  froth    at.tain  to  t.hp.ir  pfirfgf>t.ir>n 

in  eternal  love.  What  resolution  through  some  transcen- 
dental harmony  was  expected  by  Shelley  for  the  palpable 
discords  in  the  structure  of  the  universe,  we  hardly  know. 
He  did  not  give  his  philosophy  systematic  form :  and  his 
new  science  of  love  remains  a  luminous  poetic  vision — no- 
where more  brilliantly  set  forth  than  in  the  "sevenfold 
hallelujahs  and  harping  symphonies  "  of  this,  the  final  tri- 
umph of  his  lyrical  poetry. 

In  Prometheus,  Shelley  conceived  a  colossal  work  of 
art,  and  sketched  out  the  main  figures  on  a  scale  of  sur- 
passing magnificence.  While  painting  in  these  figures,  he 
seems  to  reduce  their  proportions  too  much  to  the  level  of 
earthly  life.  He  quits  his  god-creating,  heaven-compelling 
throne  of  mythopoeic  inspiration,  and  descends  to  a  love- 
story  of  Asia  and  Prometheus.  In  other  words,  he  does 
not  sustain  the  visionary  and  primeval  dignity  of  these  in- 
carnated abstractions;  nor,  on  the  other  hand,  has  he  so 
elaborated  their  characters  in  detail  as  to  give  them  the 
substantiality  of  persons.  There  is  therefore  something 
vague  and  hollow  in  both  figures.  Yet  in  the  subordinate 
passages  of  the  poem,  the  true  mythopoeic  faculty — the 
faculty  of  finding  concrete  forms  for  thought,  and  of  in- 
vesting emotion  with  personality  —  shines  forth  with  ex- 
traordinary force  and  clearness.  We  feel  ourselves  in  the 
grasp  of  a  primitive  myth -maker  while  we  read  the  de- 
scription of  Oceanus,  and  the  raptures  of  the  Earth  and 
Moon. 


124  SHELLEY.  [< 

A  genuine  liking  for  Prometheut  Unbound  may  be  reck- 
oned the  touch-stone  of  a  man's  capacity  for  understand* 
ing  lyric  poetry.  The  world  in  which  the  action  is  sup- 
posed to  move,  rings  with  spirit  voices ;  and  what  these 
spirits  sing,  is  melody  more  purged  of  mortal  dross  than 
any  other  poet's  ear  has  caught,  while  listening  to  his  own 
heart's  song,  or  to  the  rhythms  of  the  world.  There  are 
hymns  in  Prometheus,  which  seem  to  realize  the  miracle 
of  making  words,  detached  from  meaning,  the  substance 
of  a  new  ethereal  music ;  and  yet,  although  their  verbal 
harmony  is  such,  they  are  never  devoid  of  definite  sig- 
nificance for  those  who  understand.  Shelley  scorned  the 
aesthetics  of  a  school  which  finds  "sense  swooning  into 
nonsense  "  admirable.  And  if  a  critic  is  so  dull  as  to  ask 
what  "  Life  of  Life !  thy  lips  enkindle  "  means,  or  to  whom 
it  is  addressed,  none  can  help  him  any  more  than  one  can 
help  a  man  whose  sense  of  hearing  is  too  gross  for  the 
tenuity  of  a  bat's  cry.  A  voice  in  the  air  thus  sings  the 
hymn  of  Asia  at  the  moment  of  her  apotheosis : — 

Life  of  Life !  thy  lips  enkindle 
With  their  love  the  breath  between  them ; 

And  thy  smiles  before  they  dwindle 

Make  the  cold  air  fire ;  then  screen  them 

In  those  looks  where  whoso  gazes 

Faints,  entangled  in  their  mazes. 

Child  of  Light !  thy  limbs  are  burning 
Through  the  vest  which  seems  to  hide  them, 

As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 
Through  the  clouds,  ere  they  divide  them; 

And  this  atmosphere  divinest 

Shrouds  thee  wheresoe'er  thou  shinest. 

Fair  are  others ;  none  beholds  thee. 
But  thy  voice  sounds  low  and  tender, 


r.J  ITALY.  125 

Like  the  fairest,  for  it  folds  thee 

From  the  sight,  that  liquid  splendour, 
And  all  feel,  yet  see  thee  never, 
As  I  feel  now,  lost  for  ever ! 

Lamp  of  Earth !  where'er  thou  movest 
Its  dim  shapes  are  clad  with  brightness, 

And  the  souls  of  whom  thou  lovest 
Walk  upon  the  winds  with  lightness, 

Till  they  fail,  as  I  am  failing, 

Dizzy,  lost,  yet  unbewailing ! 

It  has  been  said  that  Shelley,  as  a  landscape  painter,  is 
decidedly  Turneresque ;  and  there  is  much  in  Prometheus 
Unbound  to  justify  this  opinion.  The  scale  of  colour  is 
light  and  aerial,  and  the  darker  shadows  are  omitted.  An 
excess  of  luminousness  seems  to  be  continually  radiated 
from  the  objects  at  which  he  looks ;  and  in  this  radiation 
of  many  -  coloured  lights,  the  outline  itself  is  apt  to  be  a 
little  misty.  Shelley,  moreover,  pierced  through  things  to 
their  spiritual  essence.  The  actual  world  was  less  for  him 
than  that  which  lies  within  it  and  beyond  it.  "  I  seek," 
he  says  himself,  "in  what  I  see,  the  manifestation  of  some- 
thing beyond  the  present  and  tangible  object. "/  For  him, 
as  for  the  poet  described  by  one  of  the  spirit  voices  in 
Prometheus,  the  bees  in  the  ivy-bloom  are  scarcely  heed- 
ed ;  they  become  in  his  mind, — 

Forms  more  real  than  living  man, 
Nurslings  of  immortality. 

And  yet  who  could  have  brought  the  bees,  the  lake,  the 
sun,  the  bloom,  more  perfectly  before  us  than  that  picture 
does?1  What  vignette  is  more  exquisitely  coloured  and 
finished  than  the  little  study  of  a  pair  of  halcyons  in  the 
1  Forman,  voL  ii.  p.  181. 


126  SHELLEY.  [our. 

third  act?1  Blake  is  perhaps  the  only  artist  who  could 
hare  illustrated  this  drama.  He  might  have  shadowed 
forth  the  choirs  of  spirits,  the  trailing  voices  and  their  thrill- 
ing songs,  phantasmal  Demogorgon,  and  the  charioted 
Hour.  Prometheus,  too,  with  his  "flowing  limbs,"  has 
just  Blake's  fault  of  impersonation — the  touch  of  unreal- 
ity in  that  painter's  Adam. 

Passing  to  The  Cenci,  we  change  at  once  the  moral  and 
artistic  atmosphere.  The  lyrical  element,  except  for  one 
most  lovely  dirge,  is  absent.  Imagery  and  description  are 
alike  sternly  excluded.  Instead  of  soaring  to  the  em- 
pyrean, our  feet  are  firmly  planted  on  the  earth.  In  ex- 
change for  radiant  visions  of  future  perfection,  we  are 
brought  into  the  sphere  of  dreadful  passions — all  the  ag- 
ony, endurance,  and  half-maddened  action,  of  which  luck- 
less human  innocence  is  capable.  To  tell  the  legend  of 
Beatrice  Cenci  here,  is  hardly  needed.  Her  father,  a  mon- 
ster of  vice  and  cruelty,  was  bent  upon  breaking  her  spir- 
it by  imprisonment,  torture,  and  nameless  outrage.  At  last 
her  patience  ended ;  and  finding  no  redress  in  human  jus- 
tice, no  champion  of  her  helplessness  in  living  man,  she 
wrought  his  death.  For  this  she  died  upon  the  scaffold, 
together  with  her  step-mother  and  her  brothers,  who  had 
aided  in  the  execution  of  the  murder.  The  interest  of 
The  Cenci,  and  it  is  overwhelmingly  great,  centres  in  Be- 
atrice and  her  father ;  from  these  two  chief  actors  in  the 
drama,  all  the  other  characters  fall  away  into  greater  or 
less  degrees  of  unsubstantiality.  Perhaps  Shelley  intend- 
ed this — as  the  maker  of  a  bas-relief  contrives  two  or  three 
planes  of  figures  for  the  presentation  of  his  ruling  group. 
Yet  there  appears  to  my  mind  a  defect  of  accomplishment, 
rather  than  a  deliberate  intention,  in  the  delineation  of  Or- 

1  Forman,  voL  ii.  p.  231, 


v.]  ITALY.  127 

sino.  He  seems  meant  to  be  the  wily,  crafty,  Machiavel- 
lian reptile,  whose  calculating  wickedness  should  form  a 
contrast  to  the  daemonic,  reckless,  almost  maniacal  fiend- 
ishness  of  old  Francesco  Cenci.  But  this  conception  of 
him  wavers ;  his  love  for  Beatrice  is  too  delicately  tinted, 
and  he  is  suffered  to  break  down  with  an  infirmity  of  con- 
science alien  to  such  a  nature.  On  the  other  hand  the  un- 
easy vacillations  of  Giacomo,  and  the  irresolution,  born  of 
feminine  weakness  and  want  of  fibre,  in  Lucrezia,  serve  to 
throw  the  firm  will  of  Beatrice  into  prominent  relief ;  while 
her  innocence,  sustained  through  extraordinary  suffering  in 
circumstances  of  exceptional  horror — the  innocence  of  a 
noble  nature  thrust  by  no  act  of  its  own  but  by  its  wrongs 
beyond  the  pale  of  ordinary  womankind  —  is  contrasted 
with  the  merely  childish  guiltlessness  of  Bernardo.  Be- 
atrice rises  to  her  full  height  in  the  fifth  act,  dilates  and 
grows  with  the  approach  of  danger,  and  fills  the  whole 
scene  with  her  spirit  on  the  point  of  death.  Her  sublime 
confidence  in  the  justice  and  essential  tightness  of  her  ac- 
tion, the  glance  of  self-assured  purity  with  which  she  anni- 
hilates the  cut -throat  brought  to  testify  against  her,  her 
song  in  prison,  and  her  tender  solicitude  for  the  frailer 
Lucrezia,  are  used  with  wonderful  dramatic  skill  for  the 
fulfilment  of  a  feminine  ideal  at  once  delicate  and  power- 
ful. Once  and  once  only  does  she  yield  to  ordinary  weak- 
ness ;  it  is  when  the  thought  crosses  her  mind  that  she 
may  meet  her  father  in  the  other  world,  as  once  he  came 
to  her  on  earth. 

Shelley  dedicated  The  Cenci  to  Leigh  Hunt,  saying  that 
he  had  striven  in  this  tragedy  to  cast  aside  the  subjective 
manner  of  his  earlier  work,  and  to  produce  something  at 
once  more  popular  and  more  concrete,  more  sober  in  style, 

and  with  a  firmer  grasp  on  the  realities  of  life.     He  was 
85 


128  HII.U.KY.  [CHAT. 

very  desirous  of  getting  it  acted,  and  wrote  to  Peacock 
requesting  him  to  offer  it  at  Covent  Garden.  Miss  O'Neil, 
he  thought,  would  play  the  part  of  Beatrice  admirably. 
The  manager,  however,  did  not  take  this  view ;  averring 
that  the  subject  rendered  it  incapable  of  being  even  sub- 
mitted to  an  actress  like  Miss  O'Neil.  Shelley's  self-criti- 
cism is  always  so  valuable,  that  it  may  be  well  here  to 
collect  what  he  said  about  the  two  great  dramas  of  1810. 
Concerning  The  Cenci  ho  wrote  to  Peacock : — "  It  is  writ- 
ten without  any  of  the  peculiar  feelings  and  opinions  which 
characterize  my  other  compositions;  I  having  attended 
simply  to  the  impartial  development  of  such  characters  as 
it  is  probable  the  persons  represented  really  were,  together 
with  the  greatest  degree  of  popular  effect  to  be  produced 
by  such  a  development."  "  Cenci  is  written  for  the  mul- 
titude, and  ought  to  sell  well."  "I  believe  it  singularly 
fitted  for  the  stage."  "  The  Cenci  Is  a  work  of  art ;  it  is 
not  coloured  by  my  feelings,  nor  obscured  by  my  meta- 
physics. I  don't  think  much  of  it.  It  gave  me  less 
trouble  than  anything  I  have  written  of  the  same  length." 
Prometheus,  on  the  other  hand,  he  tells  Oilier,  "is  my  fa- 
vourite poem ;  I  charge  you,  therefore,  specially  to  pet 
him  and  feed  him  with  fine  ink  and  good  paper" — which 
was  duly  done.  Again :  —  "  For  Prometheus,  I  expect 
and  desire  no  great  sale;  Prometheus  was  never  intend- 
ed for  more  than  five  or  six  persons ;  it  is  in  my  judg- 
ment of  a  higher  character  than  anything  I  have  yet  at- 
tempted, and  is  perhaps  less  an  imitation  of  anything 
that  has  gone  before  it;  it  is  original,  and  cost  me  se- 
vere mental  labour."  Shelley  was  right  in  judging  that 
The  Cenci  would  be  comparatively  popular;  this  was 
proved  by  the  fact  that  it  went  through  two  editions  in 
his  lifetime.  The  value  he  set  upon  Prometheus  as  the 


T.]  ITALY.  129 

highei  work,  will  hardly  be  disputed.  Unique  in  the 
history  of  literature,  and  displaying  the  specific  qualities 
of  its  author  at  their  height,  the  world  could  less  easily 
afford  to  lose  this  drama  than  The  Cenci,  even  though 
that  be  the  greatest  tragedy  composed  in  English  since 
the  death  of  Shakespere.  For  reasons  which  will  be  ap- 
preciated by  lovers  of  dramatic  poetry,  I  refrain  from  de- 
taching portions  of  these  two  plays.  Those  who  desire 
to  make  themselves  acquainted  with  the  author's  genius, 
must  devote  long  and  patient  study  to  the  originals  in 
their  entirety. 

Prometheus  Unbound,  like  the  majority  of  Shelley's 
works,  fell  still-born  from  the  press.  It  furnished  punsters 
with  a  joke,  however,  which  went  the  round  of  several  pa- 
pers ;  this  poem,  they  cried,  is  well  named,  for  who  would 
bind  it  ?  Of  criticism  that  deserves  the  name,  Shelley  got 
absolutely  nothing  in  his  lifetime.  The  stupid  but  ven- 
omous reviews  which  gave  him  occasional  pain,  but  which 
he  mostly  laughed  at,  need  not  now  be  mentioned.  It  is 
not  much  to  any  purpose  to  abuse  the  authors  of  mere 
rubbish.  The  real  lesson  to  be  learned  from  such  of  them 
as  may  possibly  have  been  sincere,  as  well  as  from  the 
failure  of  his  contemporaries  to  appreciate  his  genius — the 
sneers  of  Moore,  the  stupidity  of  Campbell,  the  ignorance 
of  Wordsworth,  the  priggishness  of  Southey,  or  the  con- 
descending tone  of  Keats — is  that  nothing  is  more  diffi- 
cult than  for  lesser  men  or  equals  to  pay  just  homage  to 
the  greatest  in  their  lifetime.  Those  who  may  be  inter- 
ested in  studying  Shelley's  attitude  toward  bis  critics, 
should  read  a  letter  addressed  to  Oilier  from  Florence,  Oc- 
tober 15,  1819,  soon  after  he  had  seen  the  vile  attack 
upon  him  in  the  Quarterly,  comparing  this  with  the  frag- 
ments of  an  expostulatory  x letter  to  the  Editor,  and  the 


130  SHELLEY.  [CHAP.  T. 

preface  to  Adonais*  It  is  clear  that,  though  he  bore 
scurrilous  abuse  with  patience,  he  was  prepared  if  need* 
ful  to  give  blow  for  blow.  On  the  llth  of  June,  1821,  he 
wrote  to  Oilier: — "As  yet  I  have  laughed;  but  woe  to 
those  scoundrels  if  they  should  once  make  me  lose  my 
temper  1"  The  stanzas  on  the  Quarterly  in  Adonais,  and 
the  invective  against  Lord  Eldon,  show  what  Shelley  could 
have  done  if  he  had  chosen  to  castigate  the  curs.  Mean- 
while the  critics  achieved  what  they  intended.  Shelley, 
as  Trelawny  emphatically  tells  us,  was  universally  shunned, 
coldly  treated  by  Byron's  friends  at  Pisa,  and  regarded  as 
a  monster  by  such  of  the  English  in  Italy  as  had  not  made 
his  personal  acquaintance.  On  one  occasion  he  is  even 
said  to  have  been  knocked  down  in  a  post-office  by  some 
big  bully,  who  escaped  before  he  could  obtain  his  name 
and  address ;  but  this  is  one  of  the  stories  rendered  doubt- 
ful by  lack  of  precise  details. 

1  Shelley  Memorials,  p.  121.  Garnett's  Relics  of  Shelley,  pp.  49, 
190.  Collected  Letters,  p.  147,  in  Moxoii's  Edition  of  Works  in  one 
vol.  1840. 


CHAPTER  VL 

RESIDENCE    AT    PISA. 

ON  the  26th  of  January,  1820,  the  Shelleys  established 
themselves  at  Pisa.  From  this  date  forward  to  the  7th  of 
July,  1822,  Shelley's  life  divides  itself  into  two  periods  of 
unequal  length ;  the  first  spent  at  Pisa,  the  baths  of  San 
Giuliano,  and  Leghorn  ;  the  second  at  Lerici,  on  the  Bay 
of  Spezia.  Without  entering  into  minute  particulars  of 
dates  or  recording  minor  changes  of  residence,  it  is  pos- 
sible to  treat  of  the  first  and  longer  period  in  general. 
The  house  he  inhabited  at  Pisa  was  on  the  south  side  of 
the  Arno.  After  a  few  months  he  became  the  neighbour 
of  Lord  Byron,  who  engaged  the  Palazzo  Lanfranchi  in 
order  to  be  near  him  ;  and  here  many  English  and  Italian 
friends  gathered  round  them.  Among  these  must  be  men- 
tioned in  the  first  place  Captain  Medwin,  whose  recollec- 
tions of  the  Pisan  residence  are  of  considerable  value,  and 
next  Captain  Trelawny,  who  has  left  a  record  of  Shelley's 
last  days  only  equalled  in  vividness  by  Hogg's  account  of 
the  Oxford  period,  and  marked  by  signs  of  more  unmis- 
takable accuracy.  Not  less  important  members  of  this 
private  circle  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edward  Elleker  Williams, 
with  whom  Shelley  and  his  wife  lived  on  terms  of  the 
closest  friendship.  Among  Italians,  the  physician  Vacca} 


132  SHELLEY.  [ciur. 

the  improvisatore  Sgricci,  and  Rosin  i,  the  author  of  La 
Monaco,  di  Monza,  have  to  be  recorded.  It  will  be  seen 
from  this  enumeration  that  Shelley  was  no  longer  solitary ; 
and  indeed  it  would  appear  that  now,  upon  the  eve  of  his 
accidental  death,  he  had  begun  to  enjoy  an  immunity  from 
many  of  his  previous  sufferings.  Life  expanded  before 
him :  his  letters  show  that  he  was  concentrating  his  pow- 
ers and  preparing  for  a  fresh  flight ;  and  the  months, 
though  ever  productive  of  poetic  masterpieces,  promised 
a  still  more  magnificent  birth  in  the  future. 

In  the  summer  and  autumn  of  1820,  Shelley  produced 
some  of  his  most  genial  poems :  the  Letter  to  Maria  Gis- 
borne,  which  might  be  mentioned  as  a  pendent  to  Julian 
and  Maddalo  for  its  treatment  of  familiar  things;  the 
Ode  to  a  Skylark,  that  most  popular  of  all  his  lyrics ;  the 
Witch  of  Atlas,  unrivalled  as  an  Ariel-flight  of  fairy  fancy ; 
and  the  Ode  to  Naples,  which,  together  with  the  Ode  to 
Liberty,  added  a  new  lyric  form  to  English  literature.  In 
the  winter  he  wrote  the  Sensitive  Plant,  prompted  there- 
to, we  are  told,  by  the  flowers  which  crowded  Mrs.  Shel- 
ley's drawing-room,  and  exhaled  their  sweetness  to  the 
temperate  Italian  sunlight.  Whether  we  consider  the  num- 
ber of  these  poems  or  their  diverse  character,  ranging  from 
verse  separated  by  an  exquisitely  subtle  line  from  simple 
prose  to  the  most  impassioned  eloquence  and  the  most 
ethereal  imagination,  we  shall  be  equally  astonished.  Ev- 
ery chord  of  the  poet's  lyre  is  touched,  froin  the  deep  bass 
string  that  echoes  the  diurnal  speech  of  such  a  man  as 
Shelley  was,  to  the  fine  vibrations  of  a  treble  merging  its 
rarity  of  tone  in  accents  super-sensible  to  ordinary  ears. 
One  passage  from  the  Letter  to  Maria  Gisborne  may  here 
be  quoted,  not  for  its  poetry,  but  for  the  light  it  casts 
upon  the  circle  of  his  English  friends. 


RESIDENCE  AT  PISA.  1S« 

Yon  are  now 

In  London,  that  great  sea,  whose  ebb  and  flow 
At  once  is  deaf  and  loud,  and  on  the  shore 
Vomits  its  wrecks,  and  still  howls  on  for  more. 
Yet  in  its  depth  what  treasures !    You  will  see 
That  which  was  Godwin, — greater  none  than  he 
Though  fallen — and  fallen  on  evil  times — to  stand 
Among  the  spirits  of  our  age  and  land, 
Before  the  dread  tribunal  of  To  come 
The  foremost,  while  Rebuke  cowers  pale  and  dumb. 
You  will  see  Coleridge — he  who  sits  obscure 
In  the  exceeding  lustre  and  the  pure 
Intense  irradiation  of  a  mind, 
Which,  with  its  own  internal  lightning  blind, 
Flags  wearily  through  darkness  and  despair— 
A  cloud-encircled  meteor  of  the  air, 
A  hooded  eagle  among  blinking  owls. 
You  will  see  Hunt ;  one  of  those  happy  souls 
Which  are  the  salt  of  the  earth,  and  without  whom 
This  world  would  smell  like  what  it  is — a  tomb ; 
Who  is,  what  others  seem.    His  room  no  doubt 
Is  still  adorned  by  many  a  cast  from  Shout, 
With  graceful  flowers  tastefully  placed  about, 
And  coronals  of  bay  from  ribbons  hung, 
And  brighter  wreaths  in  neat  disorder  flung ; 
The  gifts  of  the  most  learn'd  among  some  dozens 
Of  female  friends,  sisters-in-law,  and  cousins. 
And  there  is  he  with  his  eternal  puns, 
Which  beat  the  dullest  brain  for  smiles,  like  duns 
Thundering  for  money  at  a  poet's  door ; 
Alas !  it  is  no  use  to  say,  "  I'm  poor !" — 
Or  oft  in  graver  mood,  when  he  will  look 
Things  wiser  than  were  ever  read  in  book, 
Except  in  Shakespere's  wisest  tenderness. 
You  will  see  Hogg ;  and  I  cannot  express 
His  virtues,  though  I  know  that  they  are  great, 
Because  he  locks,  then  barricades  the  gate 
Within  which  they  inhabit.     Of  his  wit 
And  wisdom,  you'll  cry  out  when  you  are  bit. 


184  SHELLEY.  [CHAP. 

He  is  a  pearl  within  an  oyster-shell, 

One  of  the  richest  of  the  deep.    And  there 

IB  English  Peacock,  with  his  mountain  fair, — 

Turn'd  into  a  Flamingo,  that  shy  bird 

That  gleams  in  the  Indian  air.     Have  you  not  heard 

When  a  man  marries,  dies,  or  turns  Hindoo, 

His  best  friends  hear  no  more  of  him.     But  you 

Will  see  him,  and  will  like  him  too,  I  hope, 

With  the  milk-white  Snowdonian  antelope 

Match'd  with  this  camelopard.     His  fine  wit 

Makes  such  a  wound,  the  knife  is  lost  in  it ; 

A  strain  too  learned  for  a  shallow  age, 

Too  wise  for  selfish  bigots ;  let  his  page 

Which  charms  the  chosen  spirits  of  the  time, 

Fold  itself  up  for  the  serener  clime 

Of  years  to  come,  and  find  its  recompense 

In  that  just  expectation.     Wit  and  sense, 

Virtue  and  human  knowledge,  all  that  might 

Make  this  dull  world  a  business  of  delight, 

Are  all  combined  in  Horace  Smith.    And  these, 

With  some  exceptions,  which  I  need  not  tease 

Your  patience  by  descanting  on,  are  all 

You  and  I  know  in  London. 

Captain  Medwin,  who  came  late  in  the  autumn  of  1820, 
at  his  cousin's  invitation,  to  stay  with  the  Shelleys,  has  re- 
corded many  interesting  details  of  their  Pisan  life,  as  well 
as  valuable  notes  of  Shelley's  conversation.  "  It  was  near- 
ly seven  years  since  we  had  parted,  but  I  should  have  im- 
mediately recognized  him  in  a  crowd.  His  figure  was 
emaciated,  and  somewhat  bent,  owing  to  near-sightedness, 
and  his  being  forced  to  lean  over  his  books,  with  his  eyes 
almost  touching  them ;  his  hair,  still  profuse,  and  curling 
naturally,  was  partially  interspersed  with  grey ;  but  his 
appearance  was  youthful.  There  was  also  a  freshness  and 
purity  in  his  complexion  that  he  never  lost."  Not  long 
after  his  arrival,  Medwin  suffered  from  a  severe  and  tedi- 


VL]  RESIDENCE  AT  PISA.  136 

ous  illness.  "  Shelley  tended  me  like  a  brother.  He  ap- 
plied my  leeches,  administered  my  medicines,  and  during 
six  weeks  that  I  was  confined  to  my  room,  was  assiduous 
and  unintermitting  in  his  affectionate  care  of  me."  The 
poet's  solitude  and  melancholy  at  this  time  impressed  his 
cousin  very  painfully.  Though  he  was  producing  a  long 
series  of  imperishable  poems,  he  did  not  take  much  inter- 
est in  his  work.  "  I  am  disgusted  with  writing,"  he  once 
said,  "  and  were  it  not  for  an  irresistible  impulse,  that  pre- 
dominates my  better  reason,  should  discontinue  so  doing." 
The  brutal  treatment  he  had  lately  received  from  the 
Quarterly  Review,  the  calumnies  which  pursued  him,  and 
the  coldness  of  all  but  a  very  few  friends,  checked  his 
enthusiasm  for  composition.  Of  this  there  is  abundant 
proof  in  his  correspondence.  In  a  letter  to  Leigh  Hunt, 
dated  Jan.  25, 1822,  he  says :  "  My  faculties  are  shaken  to 
atoms  and  torpid.  I  can  write  nothing ;  and  if  Adonais 
had  no  success,  and  excited  no  interest,  what  incentive  can 
I  have  to  write  ?"  Again :  "  I  write  little  now.  It  is  im- 
possible to  compose  except  under  the  strong  excitement 
of  an  assurance  of  finding  sympathy  in  what  you  write." 
Lord  Byron's  company  proved  now,  as  before,  a  check 
rather  than  an  incentive  to  production :  "  I  do  not  write ; 
I  have  lived  too  long  near  Lord  Byron,  and  the  sun  has 
extinguished  the  glow-worm ;  for  I  cannot  hope,  with  St. 
John,  that  the  light  came  into  the  world  and  the  world 
knew  it  not"  " I  despair  of  rivalling  Lord  Byron,  as  well 
I  may,  and  there  is  no  other  with  whom  it  is  worth  con- 
tending." To  Oilier,  in  1820,  he  wrote :  "  I  doubt  wheth- 
er I  shall  write  more.  I  could  be  content  either  with  the 
hell  or  the  paradise  of  poetry;  but  the  torments  of  its 
purgatory  vex  me,  without  exciting  my  powers  sufficiently 
to  put  an  end  to  the  vexation."  It  was  not  that  his  spirit 


186  SHELLEY.  [CHAT. 

was  cowed  by  the  Reviews,  or  that  he  mistook  the  sort  of 
audience  he  had  to  address.  lie  more  than  once  acknowl- 
edged that,  while  Byron  wrote  for  the  many,  his  poems 
were  intended  for  the  understanding  few.  Yet  the  <rv- 
vcrol,  as  he  called  them,  gave  him  but  scanty  encourage- 
ment. The  cold  phrases  of  kindly  Horace  Smith  show 
that  he  had  not  comprehended  Prometheus  Unbound; 
and  Shelley  whimsically  complains  that  even  intelligent 
and  sympathetic  critics  confounded  the  ideal  passion  de- 
scribed in  Epipsychidion  with  the  love  affairs  of  "a  ser- 
vant-girl and  her  sweetheart."  This  almost  incomprehen- 
sible obtuseness  on  the  part  of  men  who  ought  to  have 
known  better,  combined  with  the  coarse  abuse  of  vulgar 
scribblers,  was  enough  to  make  a  man  so  sincerely  modest 
as  Shelley  doubt  his  powers,  or  shrink  from  the  severe  la- 
bour of  developing  them.1  "The  decision  of  the  cause," 
he  wrote  to  Mr.  Gisborne,  "  whether  or  no  /  am  a  poet,  is 
removed  from  the  present  time  to  the  hour  when  our  pos- 
terity shall  assemble ;  but  the  court  is  a  very  severe  one, 
and  I  fear  that  the  verdict  will  be,  guilty — death."  Deep 
down  in  his  own  heart  he  had,  however,  less  doubt :  "  This 
I  know,"  he  said  to  Medwin,  "  that  whether  in  prosing  or 
in  versing,  there  is  something  in  my  writings  that  shall 
live  for  ever."  And  again  he  writes  to  Hunt :  "  I  am  full 
of  thoughts  and  plans,  and  should  do  something,  if  the 
feeble  and  irritable  frame  which  encloses  it  was  willing 
to  obey  the  spirit.  I  fancy  that  then  I  should  do  great 
things."  It  seems  almost  certain  that  the  incompleteness 
of  many  longer  works  designed  in  the  Italian  period,  the 
abandonment  of  the  tragedy  on  Tasso's  story,  the  unfin- 
ished state  of  Charles  /.,  and  the  failure  to  execute  the 

1  See  Medwin,  voL  ii.  p.  172,  for  Shelley's  comment  on  the  difficul- 
ty of  the  poet's  art. 


VL]  RESIDENCE  AT  PISA.  137 

cherished  plan  of  a  drama  suggested  by  the  Book  of  Job, 
were  due  to  the  depressing  effects  of  ill-health  and  exter- 
nal discouragement.  Poetry  with  Shelley  was  no  light 
matter.  He  composed  under  the  pressure  of  intense  ex- 
citement, and  he  elaborated  his  first  draughts  with  minute 
care  and  severe  self-criticism. 

These  words  must  not  be  taken  as  implying  that  he 
followed  the  Virgilian  precedent  of  polishing  and  reducing 
the  volume  of  his  verses  by  an  anxious  exercise  of  calm 
reflection,  or  that  he  observed  the  Horatian  maxim  of 
deferring  their  publication  till  the  ninth  year.  The  con- 
trary was  notoriously  the  case  with  him.  Yet  it  is  none 
the  less  proved  by  the  state  of  his  manuscripts  that  his 
compositions,  even  as  we  now  possess  them,  were  no  mere 
improvisations.  The  passage  already  quoted  from  his 
Defence  of  Poetry  shows  the  high  ideal  he  had  conceived 
of  the  poet's  duty  toward  his  art;  and  it  may  be  confi- 
dently asserted  that  his  whole  literary  career  was  one  long 
struggle  to  emerge  from  the  incoherence  of  his  earlier  ef- 
forts, into  the  clearness  of  expression  and  precision  of 
form  that  are  the  index  of  mastery  over  style.  At  the 
same  time  it  was  inconsistent  with  his  most  firmly  rooted 
aesthetic  principles  to  attempt  composition  except  under 
an  impulse  approaching  to  inspiration.  To  imperil  his 
life  by  the  fiery  taxing  of  all  his  faculties,  moral,  intel- 
lectual, and  physical,  and  to  undergo  the  discipline  ex- 
acted by  his  own  fastidious  taste,  with  no  other  object  in 
view  than  the  frigid  compliments  of  a  few  friends,  was 
more  than  even  Shelley's  enthusiasm  could  endure.  He, 
therefore,  at  this  period  required  the  powerful  stimulus  of 
some  highly  exciting  cause  from  without  to  determine  his 
activity. 

Such  external  stimulus  came  to  Shelley  from  three 
K  7 


138  SHELLEY.  [,IUP. 

quarters  early  in  the  year  1821.  Among  bis  Italian  ac- 
quaintances at  Pisa  was  a  clever  but  disreputable  Pro- 
fessor, of  whom  Medwin  draws  a  very  piquant  portrait. 
This  man  one  day  related  the  sad  story  of  a  beautiful  and 
noble  lady,  the  Contessina  Emilia  Viviani,  who  had  been 
confined  by  her  father  in  a  dismal  convent  of  the  suburbs, 
to  await  her  marriage  with  a  distasteful  husband.  Shelley, 
fired  as  ever  by  a  tale  of  tyranny,  was  eager  to  visit  the 
fair  captive.  The  Professor  accompanied  him  and  Med- 
win to  the  con  vent -parlour,  where  they  found  her  more 
lovely  than  even  the  most  glowing  descriptions  had  led 
them  to  expect.  Nor  was  she  only  beautiful.  Shelley 
soon  discovered  that  she  had  "  cultivated  her  mind  beyond 
what  I  have  ever  met  with  in  Italian  women ;"  and  a  rhap- 
sody composed  by  her  upon  the  subject  of  Uranian  Love 
— II  Vero  Amore — justifies  the  belief  that  she  possessed 
an  intellect  of  more  than  ordinary  elevation.  He  took 
Mrs.  Shelley  to  see  her,  and  both  did  all  they  could  to 
make  her  convent-prison  less  irksome,  by  frequent  visits, 
by  letters,  and  by  presents  of  flowers  and  books.  It  was 
not  long  before  Shelley's  sympathy  for  this  unfortunate 
lady  took  the  form  of  love,  which,  however  spiritual  and 
Platonic,  was  not  the  less  passionate.  The  result  was  the 
composition  of  Epipsychidion,  the  most  unintelligible  of 
all  his  poems  to  those  who  have  not  assimilated  the  spirit 
of  Plato's  Symposium  and  Dante's  Vita  Nuova.  In  it  he 
apostrophizes  Emilia  Viviani  as  the  incarnation  of  ideal 
beauty,  the  universal  loveliness  made  visible  in  mortal 
flesh:— 

Seraph  of  Heaven !  too  gentle  to  be  human, 
Veiling  beneath  that  radiant  form  of  woman 
All  that  is  insupportable  in  thee 
Of  light,  and  love,  and  immortality ! 


n.]  RESIDENCE  AT  PISA.  139 

lie  tells  her  that  he  loves  her,  and  describes  the  troubles 
and  deceptions  of  his  earlier  manhood,  under  allegories 
veiled  in  deliberate  obscurity.  The  Pandemic  and  the 
Uranian  Aphrodite  have  striven  for  his  soul ;  for  though 
in  youth  he  dedicated  himself  to  the  service  of  ideal  beau- 
ty, and  seemed  to  find  it  under  many  earthly  shapes,  yet 
has  he  ever  been  deluded.  At  last  Emily  appears,  and  in 
her  he  recognizes  the  truth  of  the  vision  veiled  from  him 
so  many  years.  She  and  Mary  shall  henceforth,  like  sun 
and  moon,  rule  the  world  of  love  within  him.  Then  he 
calls  on  her  to  fly.  They  three  will  escape  and  live  to- 
gether, far  away  from  men,  in  an  ^Egean  island.  The 
description  of  this  visionary  isle,  and  of  the  life  to  be  led 
there  by  the  fugitives  from  a  dull  and  undiscerning  world, 
is  the  most  beautiful  that  has  been  written  this  century  in 
the  rhymed  heroic  metre. 

It  is  an  isle  under  Ionian  skies, 

Beautiful  as  a  wreck  of  Paradise ; 

And,  for  the  harbours  are  not  safe  and  good, 

This  land  would  have  remained  a  solitude 

But  for  some  pastoral  people  native  there, 

Who  from  the  Elysian,  clear,  and  golden  air 

Draw  the  last  spirit  of  the  age  of  gold, 

Simple  and  spirited,  innocent  and  bold.   * 

The  blue  JSgean  girds  this  chosen  home, 

With  ever-changing  sound  and  light  and  foam 

Kissing  the  sifted  sands  and  caverns  hoar ; 

And  all  the  winds  wandering  along  the  shore, 

Undulate  with  the  undulating  tide. 

There  are  thick  woods  where  sylvan  forms  abide; 

And  many  a  fountain,  rivulet,  and  pond, 

As  clear  as  elemental  diamond, 

Or  serene  morning  air.     And  far  beyond, 

The  mossy  tracks  made  by  the  goats  and  deer, 

(Which  the  rough  shepherd  treads  but  once  a  year,) 


140  SHELLEY.  [our. 

Pierce  into  glades,  caverns,  and  bowers,  and  halls 
Built  round  with  ivy,  which  the  waterfalls 
Illumining,  with  sound  that  never  fails 
Accompany  the  noonday  nightingales ; 
And  all  the  place  is  peopled  with  sweet  airs. 
The  light  clear  clement  which  the  isle  wears 
Is  heavy  with  the  scent  of  lemon-flowers, 
Which  floats  like  mist  laden  with  unseen  showers, 
And  falls  upon  the  eyelids  like  faint  sleep ; 
And  from  the  moss  violets  and  jonquils  peep, 
And  dart  their  arrowy  odour  through  the  brain, 
Till  you  might  faint  with  that  delicious  pain. 
And  every  motion,  odour,  beam,  and  tone, 
With  that  deep  music  is  in  unison : 
Which  is  a  soul  within  a  soul — they  seem 
Like  echoes  of  an  antenatal  dream. 
It  is  an  isle  'twixt  heaven,  air,  earth,  and  sea, 
Cradled,  and  hung  in  clear  tranquillity ; 
Bright  as  that  wandering  Eden,  Lucifer, 
Washed  by  the  soft  blue  oceans  of  young  air. 
It  is  a  favoured  place.     Famine  or  Blight, 
Pestilence,  War,  and  Earthquake,  never  light 
Upon  its  mountain-peaks  ;  blind  vultures,  they 
Sail  onward  far  upon  their  fatal  way. 
The  winged  storms,  chanting  their  thunder-psalm 
To  other  lands,  leave  azure  chasms  of  calm 
Over  this  isle,  or  weep  themselves  in  dew, 
From  which  its  fields  and  woods  ever  renew 
Their  green  and  golden  immortality. 
And  from  the  sea  there  rise,  and  from  the  sky 
There  fall,  clear  exhalations,  soft  and  bright, 
Veil  after  veil,  each  hiding  some  delight, 
Which  sun  or  moon  or  zephyr  draws  aside, 
Till  the  isle's  beauty,  like  a  naked  bride 
Glowing  at  once  with  love  and  loveliness, 
Blushes  and  trembles  at  its  own  excess: 
Yet,  like  a  buried  lamp,  a  soul  no  less 
Burns  in  the  heart  of  this  delicious  isle, 
An  atom  of  the  Eternal,  whose  own  smile 


vi.]  RESIDENCE  AT  PISA.  141 

Unfolds  itself,  and  may  be  felt  not  seen 

O'er  the  grey  rocks,  blue  waves,  and  forests  green, 

Filling  their  bare  and  void  interstices. 

Shelley  did  not  publish  Epipsychidion  with  his  own 
name.  He  gave  it  to  the  world  as  the  composition  of  a 
man  who  had  "  died  at  Florence,  as  he  was  preparing  for 
a  voyage  to  one  of  the  Sporades,"  and  he  requested  Oilier 
not  to  circulate  it,  except  among  a  few  intelligent  readers. 
It  may  almost  be  said  to  have  been  never  published,  in 
such  profound  silence  did  it  issue  from  the  press.  Very 
shortly  after  its  appearance  he  described  it  to  Leigh  Hunt 
as  "  a  portion  of  me  already  dead,"  and  added  this  signifi- 
cant allusion  to  its  subject  matter : — "  Some  of  us  have  in 
a  prior  existence  been  in  love  with  an  Antigone,  and  that 
makes  us  find  no  full  content  in  any  mortal  tie."  In  the 
letter  of  June  18,  1822,  again  he  says: — "The  Epipsy- 
chidion I  cannot  look  at ;  the  person  whom  it  celebrates 
was  a  cloud  instead  of  a  Juno ;  and  poor  Ixion  starts  from 
the  Centaur  that  was  the  offspring  of  his  own  embrace. 
If  you  are  curious,  however,  to  hear  what  I  am  and  have 
been,  it  will  tell  you  something  thereof.  It  is  an  idealized 
history  of  my  life  and  feelings.  I  think  one  is  always  in 
love  with  something  or  other ;  the  error,  and  I  confess  it 
is  not  easy  for  spirits  cased  in  flesh  and  blood  to  avoid  it, 
consists  in  seeking  in  a  mortal  image  the  likeness  of  what 
is,  perhaps,  eternal."  This  paragraph  contains  the  essence 
of  a  just  criticism.  Brilliant  as  the  poem  is,  we  cannot 
read  it  with  unwavering  belief  either  in  the  author's  sin- 
cerity at  the  time  he  wrote  it,  or  in  the  permanence  of  the 
emotion  it  describes.  The  exordium  has  a  fatal  note  of 
rhetorical  exaggeration,  not  because  the  kind  of  passion 
is  impossible,  but  because  Shelley  does  not  convince  us 
that  in  this  instance  he  had  really  been  its  subject.  His 


142  SHELLET.  [< 

own  critique,  following  so  close  upon  the  publication  of 
Epipsychidion,  confirms  the  impression  made  by  it,  and 
justifies  the  conclusion  that  he  had  utilized  his  feeling  for 
Emilia  to  express  a  favourite  doctrine  in  impassioned 
verse. 

To  students  of  Shelley's  inner  life  Epipsychidion  will 
always  have  high  value,  independently  of  ite  beauty  of 
style,  as  containing  his  doctrine  of  love.  It  is  the  full 
expression  of  the  esoteric  principle  presented  to  us  in 
Alastor,  the  Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty,  and  Prince 
Athanase.  But  the  words  just  quoted,  which  may  be 
compared  with  Mrs.  Shelley's  note  to  Prince  Athanase,  au- 
thorize our  pointing  out  what  he  himself  recognized  as 
the  defect  of  his  theory.  Instead  of  remaining  true  to 
the  conception  of  Beauty  expressed  in  the  Hymn,  Shelley 
"  sought  through  the  world  the  One  whom  he  may  love." 
Thus,  while  his  doctrine  in  Epipsychidion  seems  Platonic, 
it  will  not  square  with  the  Symposium.  Plato  treats  the 
love  of  a  beautiful  person  as  a  mere  initiation  into  di- 
vine mysteries,  the  first  step  in  the  ladder  that  ascends 
to  heaven.  When  a  man  has  formed  a  just  conception 
of  the  universal  beauty,  he  looks  back  with  a  smile  upon 
those  who  find  their  soul's  sphere  in  the  love  of  some 
mere  mortal  object.  Tested  by  this  standard,  Shelley's 
identification  of  Intellectual  Beauty  with  so  many  daugh- 
ters of  earth,  and  his  worshipping  love  of  Emilia,  is  a 
spurious  Platonism.  Plato  would  have  said  that  to  seek 
the  Idea  of  Beauty  in  Emilia  Viviani  was  a  retrogressive 
step.  All  that  she  could  do,  would  be  to  quicken  the 
soul's  sense  of  beauty,  to  stir  it  from  its  lethargy,  and  to 
make  it  divine  the  eternal  reality  of  beauty  in  the  super- 
sensual  world  of  thought.  This  Shelley  had  already  ac- 
knowledged in  the  Hymn;  and  this  he  emphasizes  in 


vi.]  RESIDENCE  AT  PISA.  143 

these  words : — "  The  error  consists  in  seeking  in  a  mortal 
image  the  likeness  of  what  is,  perhaps,  eternal." 

The  fragments  and  cancelled  passages  published  in  For- 
man's  edition  do  not  throw  much  light  upon  Epipsy- 
chidion.  The  longest,  entitled  To  his  Genius  by  its  first 
editor,  Mr.  Garnett,  reads  like  the  induction  to  a  poem 
conceived  and  written  in  a  different  key,  and  at  a  lower 
level  of  inspiration.  It  has,  however,  this  extraordinary 
interest,  that  it  deals  with  a  love  which  is  both  love  and 
friendship,  above  sex,  spiritual,  unintelligible  to  the  world 
at  large.  Thus  the  fragment  enables  the  student  better 
to  realize  the  kind  of  worship  so  passionately  expressed  in 
Epipsychidion. 

The  news  of  Keats's  death  at  Rome  on  the  27th  of  De- 
cember, 1820,  and  the  erroneous  belief  that  it  had  been 
accelerated,  if  not  caused,  by  a  contemptible  review  of  En- 
dymion  in  the  Quarterly,  stirred  Shelley  to  the  composi- 
tion of  Adonais.  He  had  it  printed  at  Pisa,  and  sent  cop- 
ies to  Oilier  for  circulation  in  London.  This  poem  was 
a  favourite  with  its  author,  who  hoped  not  only  that  it 
might  find  acceptance  with  the  public,  but  also  that  it 
would  confer  lustre  upon  the  memory  of  a  poet  whom  he 
sincerely  admired.  No  criticisms  upon  Shelley's  works 
are  half  so  good  as  his  own.  It  is,  therefore,  interesting 
to  collect  the  passages  in  which  he  speaks  of  an  elegy 
only  equalled  in  our  language  by  Lycidas,  and  in  the  point 
of  passionate  eloquence  even  superior  to  Milton's  youth- 
ful lament  for  his  friend.  "  The  Adonais,  in  spite  of  its 
mysticism,"  he  writes  to  Oilier,  "  is  the  least  imperfect  of 
my  compositions."  "I  confess  I  should  be  surprised  if 
that  poem  were  born  to  an  immortality  of  oblivion."  "  It 
is  a  highly  wrought  piece  of  art,  and  perhaps  better,  in 

point  of  composition,  than  anything  I  have  written."    "  It 
86 


144  SHELLEY.  [CHAP. 

b  absurd  in  any  review  to  criticize  Adonais,  and  still  more 
to  pretend  that  the  verses  are  bad."  "  I  know  what  to 
think  of  Adonais,  but  what  to  think  of  those  who  con- 
found it  with  the  many  bad  poems  of  the  day,  I  know 
not."  Again,  alluding  to  the  stanzas  hurled  against  the 
infamous  Quarterly  reviewer,  he  says : — "  I  have  dipped 
my  pen  in  consuming  fire  for  his  destroyers;  otherwise 
the  style  is  calm  and  solemn." 

With  these  estimates  the  reader  of  to-day  will  cordially 
agree.  Although  Adonais  is  not  so  utterly  beyond  the 
scope  of  other  poets  as  Prometheus  or  Ejripsychidion,  it 
presents  Shelley's  qualities  in  a  form  of  even  and  sustain- 
ed beauty,  brought  within  the  sphere  of  the  dullest  appre- 
hensions. Shelley,  we  may  notice,  dwells  upon  the  art  of 
the  poem ;  and  this,  perhaps,  is  what  at  first  sight  will 
strike  the  student  most.  *  He  chose  as  a  foundation  for 
his  work  those  laments  of  Bion  for  Adonis,  and  of  Mos- 
chus  for  Bion,  which  are  the  most  pathetic  products  of 
Greek  idyllic  poetry ;  and  the  transmutation  of  their  ma- 
terial into  the  substance  of  highly  spiritualized  modern 
thought,  reveals  the  potency  of  a  Prospero's  wand.  It  is 
a  metamorphosis  whereby  the  art  of  excellent  but  positive 
poets  has  been  translated  into  the  sphere  of  metaphysical 
imagination.  Urania  takes  the  place  of  Aphrodite;  the 
thoughts  and  fancies  and  desires  of  the  dead  singer  are 
substituted  for  Bion's  cupids;  and  instead  of  mountain 
shepherds,  the  living  bards  of  England  are  summoned  to 
lament  around  the  poet's  bier.  Yet  it  is  only  when  Shel- 
ley frees  himself  from  the  influence  of  his  models,  that  he 
soars  aloft  on  mighty  wing.  This  point,  too,  is  the  point 
of  transition  from  death,  sorrow,  and  the  past  to  immor- 
tality, joy,  and  the  rapture  of  the  things  that  cannot  pass 
away.  The  first  and  second  portions  of  the  poem  are,  at 


vi.]  RESIDENCE  AT  PISA.  145 

the  same  time,  thoroughly  concordant,  and  the  passage 
from  the  one  to  the  other  is  natural.  Two  quotations 
from  Adonais  will  suffice  to  show  the  power  and  sweetness 
of  its  verse. 

The  first  is  a  description  of  Shelley  himself  following 
Byron  and  Moore — the  "  Pilgrim  of  Eternity,"  and  lerne's 
"sweetest  lyrist  of  her  saddest  wrong"  —  to  the  couch 
where  Keats  lies  dead.  There  is  both  pathos  and  uncon- 
scious irony  in  his  making  these  two  poets  the  chief 
mourners,  when  we  remember  what  Byron  wrote  about 
Keats  in  Don  Juan,  and  what  Moore  afterwards  recorded 
of  Shelley ;  and  when  we  think,  moreover,  how  far  both 
Keats  and  Shelley  have  outsoared  Moore,  and  disputed 
with  Byron  his  supreme  place  in  the  heaven  of  poetry. 

Midst  others  of  less  note,  came  one  frail  Form, 
A  phantom  among  men,  companionless 
As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm, 
Whose  thunder  is  its  knell.     He,  as  I  guess, 
Had  gazed  on  Nature's  naked  loveliness, 
Actaeon-like,  and  now  he  fled  astray 
With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  world's  wilderness, 
And  his  own  thoughts,  along  that  rugged  way, 
Pursued  like  raging  hounds  their  father  and  their  prey. 

A  pard-like  Spirit  beautiful  and  swift — 
A  love  in  desolation  masked — a  Power 
Girt  round  with  weakness ;  it  can  scarce  uplift 
The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour ; 
Is  it  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower, 
A  breaking  billow ;— even  whilst  we  speak 
Is  it  not  broken  ?     On  the  withering  flower 
The  killing  sun  smiles  brightly :  on  a  cheek 
The  life  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while  the  heart  may  break. 

His  head  was  bound  with  pansies  over-blown, 
And  faded  violets,  white  and  pied  and  blue,* 
7* 


146  KHKI.I.KY.  [tour 

And  a  light  spear  topped  with  a  cypress  cone, 
Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy-tresses  grew 
Yet  dripping  with  the  forest's  noon-day  dew, 
Vibrated,  as  the  ever-beating  heart 
Shook  the  weak  hand  that  grasped  it    Of  that  crew 
He  came  the  last,  neglected  and  apart ; 
A  herd-abandoned  deer,  struck  by  the  hunter's  dart. 

The  second  passage  is  the  peroration  of  the  poem. 
Nowhere  has  Shelley  expressed  his  philosophy  of  man's 
relation  to  the  universe  with  more  sublimity  and  with  a 
more  imperial  command  of  language  than  in  these  stanzas. 
If  it  were  possible  to  identify  that  philosophy  with  any 
recognized  system  of  thought,  it  might  be  called  panthe- 
ism. But  it  is  difficult  to  affix  a  name,  stereotyped  by  the 
usage  of  the  schools,  to  the  aerial  spiritualism  of  its  ar- 
dent and  impassioned  poet's  creed. 

The  movement  of  the  long  melodious  sorrow-song  has 
just  been  interrupted  by  three  stanzas,  in  which  Shelley 
lashes  the  reviewer  of  Keats.  He  now  bursts  forth  afresh 
into  the  music  of  consolation : — 

Peace,  peace !  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not  sleep !  A 
He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of  life. 
Tis  we  who,  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep 
With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife, 
And  in  mad  trance  strike  with  our  spirit's  knife   • 
Invulnerable  nothings.     We  decay 
Like  corpses  in  a  charnel ;  fear  and  grief 
Convulse  us  and  consume  us  day  by  day, 
And  cold  hopes  swarm  like  worms  within  our  living  clay. 

He  has  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our  night ; 
Envy  and  calumny,  and  bate  and  pain, 
And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight, 
Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again  ; 
From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 


TLj  RESIDENCE  AT  PISA.  147 

He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 
A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  grey  in  vain ; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  burn, 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented  urn. 

He  lives,  he  wakes — 'tis  Death  is  dead,  not  he ; 
Mourn  not  for  Adonais. — Thou  young  Dawn, 
Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendour,  for  from  thee 
The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone ; 
Ye  caverns  and  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan ! 
Cease,  ye  faint  flowers  and  fountains,  and  thou  Air 
Which  like  a  mourning  veil  thy  scarf  hadst  thrown 
O'er  the  abandoned  Earth,  now  leave  it  bare 
Even  to  the  joyous  stars  which  smile  on  its  despair ! 

He  is  made  one  with  Nature :  there  is  heard 
His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan 
Of  thunder,  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet  bird ; 
He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 
In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and  stone, 
Spreading  itself  where'er  that  Power  may  move 
Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its  own  ; 
Which  wields  the  world  with  never  wearied  love, 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it  above. 

He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 
Which  once  he  made  more  lovely :  he  doth  bear 
His  part,  while  the  One  Spirit's  plastic  stress 
Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world,  compelling  there 
All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they  wear ; 
Torturing  th'  unwilling  dross  that  checks  its  flight 
To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may  bear ; 
And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the  Heaven's  light. 

But  the  absorption  of  the  human  soul  into  primeval 
nature  -  forces,  the  blending  of  the  principle  of  thought 
with  the  universal  spirit  of  beauty,  is  not  enough  to  sat- 


148  SHELLEY.  [CHAP. 

isfy  man's  yearning  after  immortality.  Therefore  in  the 
next  three  stanzas  the  indestructibility  of  the  personal  self 
is  presented  to  us,  as  the  soul  of  Adonais  passes  into  th« 
company  of  the  illustrious  dead  who,  like  him,  were  un- 
timely slain  :— 

The  splendours  of  the  firmament  of  time 
May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished  not : 
Like  stars  to  their  appointed  height  they  climb, 
And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot  blot 
The  brightness  it  may  veil    When  lofty  thought 
Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair, 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it,  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly  doom^Xhc  dead  live  there, 
And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark  and  stormy  air. 

The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown 
Rose  from  their  thrones,  built  beyond  mortal  thought, 
Far  in  the  Unapparent     Chatterton 
Rose  pale,  his  solemn  agony  had  not 
Yet  faded  from  him ;  Sidney,  as  he  fought 
Aud  as  he  fell,  and  as  he  lived  and  loved, 
Sublimely  mild,  a  Spirit  without  spot, 
Arose ;  and  Lucan,  by  his  death  approved : — 
Oblivion  as  they  rose  shrank  like  a  thing  reproved. 

And  many  more,  whose  names  on  Earth  are  dark, 
But  whose  transmitted  effluence  cannot  die 
So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark, 
Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 
"  Thou  art  become  as  one  of  us,"  they  cry ; 
"  It  was  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere  has  long 
Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty, 
Silent  alone  amid  an  Heaven  of  song. 
Assume  thy  winged  throne,  thou  Vesper  of  our  throng !" 

From  the  more  universal  and  philosophical  aspects  of 
his  theme,  the  poet  once  more  turns  to  the  special  subject 


YT.J  RESIDENCE  AT  PISA.  149 

that  had  stirred  him.  Adonais  lies  dead ;  and  those  who 
mourn  him  must  seek  his  grave.  He  has  escaped :  to  fol- 
low him  is  to  die ;  and  where  should  we  learn  to  dote  on 
death  unterrified,  if  not  in  Rome?  In  this  way  the  de- 
scription of  Keats's  resting-place  beneath  the  pyramid  of 
Cestius,  which  was  also  destined  to  be  Shelley's  own,  ia 
introduced : — 


Who  mourns  for  Adonais  ?  oh  come  forth, 
Fond  wretch !  and  show  thyself  and  him  aright. 
Clasp  with  thy  panting  soul  the  pendulous  Earth ; 
As  from  a  centre,  dart  thy  spirit's  light 
Beyond  all  worlds,  until  its  spacious  might 
Satiate  the  void  circumference :  then  shrink 
Even  to  a  point  within  our  day  and  night ; 
And  keep  thy  heart  light,  let  it  make  thec  sink 
When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured  thee  to  the  brink. 

Or  go  to  Rome,  which  is  the  sepulchre, 
Oh,  not  of  him,  but  of  our  joy :  'tis  nought 
That  ages,  empires,  and  religions  there 
Lie  buried  hi  the  ravage  they  have  wrought ; 
For  such  as  he  can  lend, — they  borrow  not 
Glory  from  those  who  made  the  world  their  prey; 
And  he  is  gathered  to  the  kings  of  thought 
Who  waged  contention  with  their  time's  decay, 
And  of  the  past  are  all  that  cannot  pass  away. 

Go  thou  to  Rome, — at  once  the  Paradise, 
The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness ; 
And  where  its  wrecks  like  shattered  mountains  rise, 
And  flowering  weeds  and  fragrant  copses  dress 
The  bones  of  Desolation's  nakedness, 
Pass,  till  the  Spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 
Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access, 
Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the  dead 
A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass  is  spread ; 


' 


160  SHELLEY.  [CHAT. 

And  grey  walla  moulder  round,  on  which  dull  Time 
Feeds,  like  Blow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand ; 
And  one  keen  pyramid  with  wedge  sublime, 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 
Like  flame  transformed  to  marble ;  and  beneath, 
A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 
Hare  pitched  in  Heaven's  smile  their  camp  of  death, 
Welcoming  him  we  lose  with  scarce  extinguished  breath. 

Here  pause :  these  graves  are  all  too  young  as  yet 
To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which  consigned 
Its  charge  to  each ;  and  if  the  seal  is  set, 
Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning  mind, 
Break  if  not  thou  1  too  surely  shall  thou  find 
Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  returnest  home, 
Of  tears  and  gall.    From  the  world's  bitter  wind 
Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
What  Adonais  is,  why  fear  we  to  become  ? 

Yet  again  the  thought  of  Death  as  the  deliverer,  the  re« 
veale'r,  and  the  mystagogue,  through  whom  the  soul  of  man 
is  reunited  to  the  spirit  of  the  universe,  returns ;  and  on 
this  solemn  note  the  poem  closes.  The  symphony  of  ex- 
ultation which  had  greeted  the  passage  of  Adonais  into 
the  eternal  world,  is  here  subdued  to  a  graver  key,  as  befits 
the  mood  of  one  whom  mystery  and  mourning  still  op- 
press on  earth.  Yet  even  in  the  somewhat  less  than  jubi- 
lant conclusion  we  feel  that  highest  of  all  Shelley's  quali- 
ties— the  liberation  of  incalculable  energies,  the  emancipa- 
tion and  expansion  of  a  force  within  the  soul,  victorious 
over  circumstance,  exhilarated  and  elevated  by  contact  with 
such  hopes  as  make  a  feebler  spirit  tremble : 

The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and  pass ; 
Heaven's  light  for  ever  shines,  Earth's  shadows  fly ; 


TL]  RESIDENCE  AT  PISA.  151 

Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-coloured  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 
Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments. — Die, 
If  thou  wouldst  be  with  that  which  thou  dost  seek ! 
Follow  where  all  is  fled ! — Rome's  azure  sky, 
Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words,  are  weak 
The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth  to  speak. 

Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  shrink,  my  Heart? 
Thy  hopes  are  gone  before :  from  all  things  here 
They  have  departed  ;  thou  shouldst  now  depart ! 
A  light  is  past  from  the  revolving  year, 
And  man  and  woman ;  and  what  still  is  dear 
Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee  wither. 
The  soft  sky  smiles,  the  low  wind  whispers  near : 
'Tis  Adonais  calls !  oh,  hasten  thither ! 
No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death  can  join  together. 

That  light  whose  smile  kindles  the  Universe, 
That  beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and  move, 
That  benediction  which  the  eclipsing  curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  Love 
Which  through  the  web  of  being  blindly  wove 
By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and  sea, 
Bums  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 
The  fire  for  which  all  thirst,  now  beams  on  me, 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality. 

The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in  song 
Descends  on  me ;  my  spirit's  bark  is  driven 
Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling  throng 
Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given. 
The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven ! 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully  afar ; 
Whilst  burning  through  the  inmost  veil  of  Heaven, 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal  are. 

It  will  be  seen  that,  whatever  Shelley  may  from  time  to 


162  SHELLEY.  [CHAP. 

time  have  said  about  tbc  immortality  of  the  soul,  he  was 
no  materialist,  and  no  believer  in  the  extinction  of  the 
spiritual  element  by  death.  Yet  he  was  too  wise  to  dog- 
matize upon  a  problem  which  by  its  very  nature  admits  of 
no  solution  in  this  world.  "  I  hope,"  he  said,  "  but  my 
hopes  are  not  unmixed  with  fear  for  what  will  befall  this 
inestimable  spirit  when  we  appear  to  die."  On  another 
occasion  he  told  Trclawny, "  I  am  content  to  sec  no  far- 
ther into  futurity  than  Plato  and  Bacon.  My  mind  is 
tranquil;  I  have  no  fears  and  some  hopes.  In  our  pres- 
ent gross  material  state  our  faculties  are  clouded ;  when 
Death  removes  our  clay  coverings,  the  mystery  will  be 
solved."  How  constantly  the  thought  of  death  as  the  re- 
vealer  was  present  to  his  mind,  may  be  gathered  from  an 
incident  related  by  Trelawny.  They  were  bathing  in  the 
Arno,  when  Shelley,  who  could  not  swim,  plunged  into 
deep  water,  and  "lay  stretched  out  at  the  bottom  like  a 
conger  eel,  not  making  the  least  effort  or  struggle  to  save 
himself."  Trelawny  fished  him  out,  and  when  he  had 
taken  breath,  he  said :  "  I  always  find  the  bottom  of  the 
well,  and  they  say  Truth  lies  there.  In  another  minute  I 
should  have  found  it,  and  you  would  have  found  an  empty 
shell.  Death  is  the  veil  which  those  who  live  call  life ; 
they  sleep,  and  it  is  lifted."  Yet  being  pressed  by  his 
friend,  he  refused  to  acknowledge  a  formal  and  precise 
belief  in  the  imperishability  of  the  human  soul.  "We 
know  nothing ;  we  have  no  evidence ;  we  cannot  express 
our  inmost  thoughts.  They  are  incomprehensible  even  to 
ourselves."  The  clear  insight  into  the  conditions  of  the 
question  conveyed  by  the  last  sentence  is  very  character- 
istic of  Shelley.  It  makes  us  regret  the  non-completion 
of  his  essay  on  a  Future  Life,  which  would  certainly  have 
stated  the  problem  with  rare  lucidity  and  candour,  and 


vi.]  RESIDENCE  AT  PISA.  153 

would  have  illuminated  the  abyss  of  doubt  with  a  sense 
of  spiritual  realities  not  often  found  in  combination  with 
wise  suspension  of  judgment.  What  he  clung  to  amid  all 
perplexities  was  the  absolute  and  indestructible  existence 
of  the  universal  as  perceived  by  us  in  love,  beauty,  and  de-  *" 
light.  Though  the  destiny  of  the  personal  self  be  obscure, 
these  things  cannot  fail.  The  conclusion  of  the  Sensitive 
Plant  might  be  cited  as  conveying  the  quintessence  of  his 
hope  upon  this  most  intangible  of  riddles. 

Whether  the  Sensitive  Plant,  or  that 
Which  within  its  boughs  like  a  spirit  sat, 
Ere  its  outward  form  had  known  decay, 
Now  felt  this  change,  I  cannot  say. 

I  dare  not  guess ;  but  in  this  life 
Of  error,  ignorance,  and  strife, 
Where  nothing  is,  but  all  things  seem, 
And  we  the  shadows  of  the  dream :        / 

It  is  a  modest  creed,  and  yet 
Pleasant,  if  one  considers  it, 
To  own  that  death  itself  must  be, 
Like  all  the  rest,  a  mockery. 

That  garden  sweet,  that  lady  fair, 
And  all  sweet  shapes  and  odours  there, 
In  truth  have  never  passed  away : 
'Tis  we,  'tis  ours,  are  changed ;  not  they. 

For  love,  and  beauty,  and  delight, 
There  is  no  death  nor  change ;  their  might 
Exceeds  our  organs,  which  endure 
No  light,  being  themselves  obscure. 

But  it  is  now  time  to  return  from  this  digression  to  the 
poem  which  suggested  it,  and  which,  more  than  any  other, 
L 


KM  SHELLEY.  [CHAP. 

serves  to  illustrate  its  author's  mood  of  feeling  about  the 
life  beyond  the  grave.  The  last  lines  of  Adonais  might 
be  read  as  a  prophecy  of  his  own  death  by  drowning. 
The  frequent  recurrence  of  this  thought  in  his  poetry  is, 
to  say  the  least,  singular.  In  Alattor  we  read : — 

A  restless  impulse  urged  him  to  embark 
And  meet  lone  Death  on  the  drear  ocean's  waste ; 
For  well  he  knew  that  mighty  Shadow  loves 
The  slimy  caverns  of  the  populous  deep. 

The  Ode  to  Liberty  closes  on  the  same  note : — 

As  a  far  taper  fades  with  fading  night ; 

As  a  brief  insect  dies  with  dying  day, 
My  song,  its  pinions  disarrayed  of  might, 

Drooped.     O'er  it  closed  the  echoes  far  away 
Of  the  great  voice  which  did  its  flight  sustain, 
As  waves  which  lately  paved  his  watery  way 
Hiss  round  a  drowner's  head  in  their  tempestuous  play. 

The  Stanzas  written  in  Dejection,  near  Naples,  echo  the 
thought  with  a  slight  variation : — 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild, 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are ; 
I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 

And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne,  and  yet  must  bear, — 

Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me, 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 

My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

Trelawny  tells  a  story  of  his  friend's  life  at  Lerici,  which 
further  illustrates  his  preoccupation  with  the  thought  of 
death  at  sea.  He  took  Mrs.  Williams  and  her  children  out 
upon  the  bay  in  his  little  boat  one  afternoon,  and  starting 
suddenly  from  a  deep  reverie,  into  which  he  had  fallen, 


n.]  RESIDENCE  AT  PISA,  155 

exclaimed  with  a  joyful  and  resolute  voice,  "  Now  let  us 
together  solve  the  great  mystery !"  Too  much  value  must 
not  be  attached  to  what  might  have  been  a  mere  caprice 
of  utterance.  Yet  the  proposal  not  unreasonably  fright- 
ened Mrs.  Williams,  for  Shelley's  friends  were  accustomed 
to  expect  the  realization  of  his  wildest  fancies.  It  may 
incidentally  be  mentioned  that  before  the  water  finally 
claimed  its  victim,  he  had  often  been  in  peril  of  life  upon 
his  fatal  element — during  the  first  voyage  to  Ireland,  while 
crossing  the  Channel  with  Mary  in  an  open  boat,  again  at 
Meillerie  with  Byron,  and  once  at  least  with  Williams. 

A  third  composition  of  the  year  1821  was  inspired  by 
the  visit  of  Prince  Mavrocordato  to  Pisa.  He  called  on 
Shelley  in  April,  showed  him  a  copy  of  Prince  Ipsilanti's 
proclamation,  and  announced  that  Greece  was  determined 
to  strike  a  blow  for  freedom.  The  news  aroused  all  Shel- 
ley's enthusiasm,  and  he  began  the  lyrical  drama  of  Hellas, 
which  he  has  described  as  "  a  sort  of  imitation  of  the  Per- 
sae  of  ^Eschylus."  We  find  him  at  work  upon  it  in  Oc- 
tober ;  and  it  must  have  been  finished  by  the  end  of  that 
month,  since  the  dedication  bears  the  date  of  November 
1st,  1821.  Shelley  did  not  set  great  store  by  it.  "It 
was  written,"  he  says,  "  without  much  care,  and  in  one  of 
those  few  moments  of  enthusiasm  which  now  seldom  visit 
me,  and  which  make  me  pay  dear  for  their  visits."  The 
preface  might,  if  space  permitted,  be  cited  as  a  specimen 
of  his  sound  and  weighty  judgment  upon  one  of  the  great- 
est political  questions  of  this  century.  What  he  says  about 
the  debt  of  the  modern  world  to  ancient  Hellas,  is  no  less 
pregnant  than  his  severe  strictures  upon  the  part  played 
by  Russia  in  dealing  with  Eastern  questions.  For  the  rest, 
the  poem  is  distinguished  by  passages  of  great  lyrical 
beauty,  rising  at  times  to  the  sublimest  raptures,  and 


156  SHELLEY.  [a  UP. 

closing  on  the  half -pathetic  cadence  of  that  well-known 
Chorus, "  The  world's  great  age  begins  anew."  Of  dra- 
matic interest  it  has  but  little ;  nor  is  the  play,  as  finished, 
equal  to  the  promise  held  forth  by  the  superb  fragment  of 
its  so-called  Prologue.1  This  truly  magnificent  torso  must, 
I  think,  have  been  the  commencement  of  the  drama  as 
conceived  upon  a  different  and  more  colossal  plan,  which 
Shelley  rejected  for  some  unknown  reason.  It  shows  the 
influence  not  only  of  the  Book  of  Job,  but  also  of  the 
Prologue  in  Heaven  to  Faust,  upon  his  mind. 

The  lyric  movement  of  the  Chorus  from  Hellas,  which 
I  propose  to  quote,  marks  the  highest  point  of  Shelley's 
rhythmical  invention.  As  for  the  matter  expressed  in  it, 
we  must  not  forget  that  these  stanzas  are  written  for  a  Cho- 
rus of  Greek  captive  women,  whose  creed  does  not  prevent 
their  feeling  a  regret  for  the  "  mightier  forms  of  an  old- 
er, austerer  worship."  Shelley's  note  reminds  the  reader, 
with  characteristic  caution  and  frankness,  that  "  the  popu- 
lar notions  of  Christianity  are  represented  in  this  Chorus 
as  true  in  their  relation  to  the  worship  they  superseded, 
and  that  which  in  all  probability  they  will  supersede,  with- 
out considering  their  merits  in  a  relation  more  universal." 

Worlds  on  worlds  are  rolling  ever 

From  creation  to  decay, 
Like  the  bubbles  on  a  river 

Sparkling,  bursting,  borne  away. 

But  they  are  still  immortal 

Who,  through  birth's  orient  portal, 
And  death's  dark  chasm  hurrying  to  and  fro, 

Clothe  their  unceasing  flight 

In  the  brief  dust  and  light 
Gathered  around  their  chariots  as  they  go ; 

1  Forman,  iv.  p.  96. 


n.]  RESIDENCE  AT  PISA.  167 

New  shapes  they  still  may  weave, 
New  gods,  new  laws  receive ; 
Bright  or  dim  are  they,  as  the  robes  they  last 
On  Death's  bare  ribs  had  cast 

A  power  from  the  unknown  God, 

A  Promethean  conqueror  came ; 
lake  a  triumphal  path  he  trod 
The  thorns  of  death  and  shame. 
A  mortal  shape  to  him 
Was  like  the  vapor  dim 
Which  the  orient  planet  animates  with  light 
Hell,  Sin,  and  Slavery  came, 
Like  bloodhounds  mild  and  tame, 
Nor  preyed  until  their  Lord  had  taken  flight 
The  moon  of  Mahomet 
Arose,  and  it  shall  set : 
While  blazoned  as  on  heaven's  immortal  noon 
The  cross  leads  generations  on. 

Swift  as  the  radiant  shapes  of  sleep 

From  one  whose  dreams  are  paradise, 
Fly,  when  the  fond  wretch  wakes  to  weep, 
And  day  peers  forth  with  her  blank  eyes ; 
So  fleet,  so  faint,  so  fair, 
The  Powers  of  earth  and  air 
Fled  from  the  folding  star  of  Bethlehem : 
Apollo,  Pan,  and  Love, 
And  even  Olympian  Jove, 
Grew  weak,  for  killing  Truth  had  glared  on  them. 
Our  hills,  and  seas,  and  streams, 
Dispeopled  of  their  dreams, 
Their  waters  turned  to  blood,  their  dew  to  tears, 
Wailed  for  the  golden  years. 

In  the  autumn  of  this  year  Shelley  paid  Lord  Byron  a 
visit  at  Ravenna,  where  he  made  acquaintance  with  the 
Countess  Guiccoli.  It  was  then  settled  that  Byron,  who 


168  SHELLEY.  [our. 

had  formed  the  project  of  starting  a  journal  to  be  called 
The  Liberal  in  concert  with  Leigh  Hunt,  should  himself 
settle  in  Pisa.  Leigh  Hunt  was  to  join  his  brother  poets 
in  the  same  place.  The  prospect  gave  Shelley  great  pleas- 
ure, for  he  was  sincerely  attached  to  Hunt ;  and  though 
he  would  not  promise  contributions  to  the  journal,  partly 
lest  his  name  should  bring  discredit  on  it,  and  partly  be- 
cause he  did  not  choose  to  appear  before  the  world  as  a 
hanger-on  of  Byron's,  he  thoroughly  approved  of  a  plan 
which  would  be  profitable  to  his  friend  by  bringing  him 
into  close  relation  with  the  most  famous  poet  of  the  age.1 
That  he  was  not  without  doubts  as  to  Byron's  working 
easily  in  harness  with  Leigh  Hunt,  may  be  seen  in  his  cor- 
respondence ;  and  how  fully  these  doubts  were  destined  to 
be  confirmed,  is  only  too  well  known. 

At  Ravenna  he  was  tormented  by  the  report  of  some 
more  than  usually  infamous  calumny.  What  it  was,  we 
do  not  know ;  but  that  it  made  profound  impression  on 
his  mind,  appears  from  a  remarkable  letter  addressed  to 
his  wife  on  the  16th  and  17th  of  August  from  Ravenna. 
In  it  he  repeats  his  growing  weariness,  and  his  wish  to  es- 
cape from  society  to  solitude ;  the  weariness  of  a  nature 
wounded  and  disappointed  by  commerce  with  the  world, 
but  neither  soured  nor  driven  to  fury  by  cruel  wrongs. 
It  is  noticeable  at  the  same  time  that  he  clings  to  his 
present  place  of  residence : — "  our  roots  never  struck  so 
deeply  as  at  Pisa,  and  the  transplanted  tree  flourishes  not." 
At  Pisa  he  had  found  real  rest  and  refreshment  in  the  so- 
ciety of  his  two  friends,  the  Williamses.  Some  of  his  sad- 
dest and  most  touching  lyrics  of  this  year  are  addressed 
to  Jane — for  so  Mrs.  Williams  was  called ;  and  attentive 
students  may  perceive  that  the  thought  of  Emilia  was  al- 

1  See  the  Letter  to  Leigh  Hunt,  Pisa,  Aug.  26, 1821, 


n.]  RESIDENCE  AT  PISA.  16» 

ready  blending  by  subtle  transitions  with  the  new  thought 
of  Jane.  One  poem,  almost  terrible  in  its  intensity  of 
melancholy,  is  hardly  explicable  on  the  supposition  that 
Shelley  was  quite  happy  in  his  home.1  These  words  must 
be  taken  as  implying  no  reflection  either  upon  Mary's  love 
for  him,  or  upon  his  own  power  to  bear  the  slighter  trou- 
bles of  domestic  life.  He  was  not  a  spoiled  child  of  fort- 
une, a  weak  egotist,  or  a  querulous  complainer.  But  he 
was  always  seeking  and  never  finding  the  satisfaction  of 
some  deeper  craving.  In  his  own  words,  he  had  loved  An- 
tigone before  he  visited  this  earth :  and  no  one  woman 
could  probably  have  made  him  happy,  because  he  was  for 
ever  demanding  more  from  love  than  it  can  give  in  the 
mixed  circumstances  of  mortal  life.  Moreover,  it  must  be 
remembered  that  his  power  of  self-expression  has  bestow- 
ed permanent  form  on  feelings  which  may  have  been  but 
transitory ;  nor  can  we  avoid  the  conclusion  that,  sincere 
as  Shelley  was,  he,  like  all  poets,  made  use  of  the  emotion 
of  the  moment  for  purposes  of  art,  converting  an  epheme- 
ral mood  into  something  typical  and  universal.  This  was 
almost  certainly  the  case  with  JEpipsychidion. 

So  much  at  any  rate  had  to  be  said  upon  this  subject ; 
for  careful  readers  of  Shelley's  minor  poems  are  forced  to 
the  conviction  that  during  the  last  year  of  his  life  he  often 
found  relief  from  a  wretchedness,  which,  however  real,  can 
hardly  be  defined,  in  the  sympathy  of  this  true-hearted 
woman.  The  affection  he  felt  for  Jane  was  beyond  ques- 
tion pure  and  honourable.  All  the  verses  he  addressed  to 
her  passed  through  her  husband's  hands  without  the 
slightest  interruption  to  their  intercourse ;  and  Mrs.  Shel- 
ley, who  was  not  unpardonably  jealous  of  her  Ariel,  con- 
tinued to  be  Mrs.  Williams's  warm  friend.  A  passage  from 

1  "  The  Serpent  ia  shut  out  from  Paradise." 
87 


180  SHELLEY.  [CHA*. 

Shelley's  letter  of  June  18, 1822,  expresses  the  plain  prose 
of  his  relation  to  the  Williamses : — "  They  are  people  who 
are  very  pleasing  to  me.  Bat  words  are  not  the  instru- 
ments of  our  intercourse.  I  like  Jane  more  and  more, 
and  I  find  Williams  the  most  amiable  of  companions.  She 
has  a  taste  for  music,  and  an  eloquence  of  form  and  mo- 
tions that  compensate  in  some  degree  for  the  lack  of  liter- 
ary refinement." 

Two  lyrics  of  this  period  may  here  be  introduced,  partly 
for  the  sake  of  their  intrinsic  beauty,  and  partly  because 
they  illustrate  the  fecundity  of  Shelley's  genius  during  the 
months  of  tranquil  industry  which  he  passed  at  Pisa.  The 
first  is  an  Invocation  to  Night : — 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night  1 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave, 
Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear, 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, — 

Swift  be  thy  flight! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  grey, 
Star-inwrought ! 

Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  day, 

Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out. 

Then  wander  o'er  city,  and  sea,  and  land, 

Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand- 
Come,  long-sought ! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sighed  for  thee ; 

When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone. 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  his  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sighed  for  thee. 


TL]  RESIDENCE  AT  PISA.  161 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

"  Wouldst  thou  me  ?w 

Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 

Murmured  like  a  noon-tide  bee, 

"  Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side  ? 

Wouldst  thou  me  ?"— And  I  replied, 
"No,notthee!" 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon — 

Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled ; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Gome  soon,  soon ! 

The  second  is  an  Epithalamium  composed  for  a  drama 
which  his  friend  Williams  was  writing.  Students  of  the 
poetic  art  will  find  it  not  uninteresting  to  compare  the 
three  versions  of  this  Bridal  Song,  given  by  Mr.  Forman.1 
They  prove  that  Shelley  was  no  careless  writer. 

The  golden  gates  of  sleep  unbar 
Where  strength  and  beauty,  met  together, 

Kindle  their  image  h'ke  a  star 
In  a  sea  of  glassy  weather! 

Night,  with  all  thy  stars  look  down — 

Darkness,  weep  thy  holiest  dew ! 
Never  smiled  the  inconstant  moon 

On  a  pair  so  true. 
Let  eyes  not  see  their  own  delight ; 
Haste,  swift  Hour,  and  thy  flight 

Oft  renew. 


Fairies,  sprites,  and  angels,  keep  her ! 
Holy  stars,  permit  no  wrong ! 


1  Vol.  iv.  p.  89. 


16*  SHELLET.  [CHAT. 

And  return  to  wake  the  sleeper, 

Dawn,  ere  it  be  long. 
O  joy  I  0  fear !  what  will  be  done 

In  the  absence  of  the  sun ! 
Gome  along ! 

Lyrics  like  these,  delicate  in  thought  and  exquisitely 
finished  in  form,  were  produced  with  a  truly  wonderful 
profusion  in  this  season  of  his  happiest  fertility.  A 
glance  at  the  last  section  of  Mr.  Palgrave's  Golden  Treas- 
ury shows  how  large  a  place  they  occupy  among  the  per- 
manent jewels  of  our  literature. 

The  month  of  January  added  a  new  and  most  impor- 
tant member  to  the  little  Pisan  circle.  This  was  Cap- 
tain Edward  John  Trelawny,  to  whom  more  than  to  any 
one  else  hut  Hogg  and  Mrs.  Shelley,  the  students  of  the 
poet's  life  are  indebted  for  details  at  once  accurate  and 
characteristic.  Trelawny  had  lived  a  free  life  in  all  quar- 
ters of  the  globe,  far  away  from  literary  cliques  and  the 
society  of  cities,  in  contact  with  the  sternest  realities  of 
existence,  which  had  developed  his  self-reliance  and  his 
physical  qualities  to  the  utmost.  The  impression,  there- 
fore, made  on  him  by  Shelley  has  to  be  gravely  estimated 
by  all  who  still  incline  to  treat  the  poet  as  a  patholog- 
ical specimen  of  humanity.  This  true  child  of  nature 
recognized  in  his  new  friend  far  more  than  in  Byron  the 
stuff  of  a  real  man.  "To  form  a  just  idea  of  his  poetry, 
you  should  have  witnessed  his  daily  life ;  his  words  and 
actions  best  illustrated  his  writings."  "The  cynic  Byron 
acknowledged  him  to  be  the  best  and  ablest  man  he  had 
ever  known.  The  truth  was,  Shelley  loved  everything 
better  than  himself."  "  I  have  seen  Shelley  and  Byron 
in  society,  and  the  contrast  was  as  marked  as  their  charac- 
ters. The  former,  not  thinking  of  himself,  was  as  much 


YL]  RESIDENCE  AT  PISA.  163 

at  ease  as  in  his  own  home,  omitting  no  occasion  of  oblig- 
ing those  whom  he  came  in  contact  with,  readily  convers- 
ing with  all  or  any  who  addressed  him,  irrespective  of  age 
or  rank,  dress  or  address."  "All  who  heard  him  felt  the 
charm  of  his  simple,  earnest  manner:  while  Byron  knew 
him  to  be  exempt  from  the  egotism,  pedantry,  coxcombry, 
and  more  than  all  the  rivalry  of  authorship."  "  Shelley's 
mental  activity  was  infectious  ;  he  kept  your  brain  in  con- 
stant action."  "He  was  always  in  earnest."  "He  nev- 
er laid  aside  his  book  and  magic  mantle ;  he  waved  his 
wand,  and  Byron,  after  a  faint  show  of  defiance,  stood 

mute Shelley's  earnestness  and  just  criticism  held 

him  captive."  These  sentences,  and  many  others,  prove 
that  Trelawny,  himself  somewhat  of  a  cynic,  cruelly  ex- 
posing false  pretensions,  and  detesting  affectation  in  any 
form,  paid  unreserved  homage  to  the  heroic  qualities  this 
"dreamy  bard,"  —  "uncommonly  awkward,"  as  he  also 
called  him — bad  rider  and  poor  seaman  as  he  was — "  over- 
sensitive," and  "  eternally  brooding  on  his  own  thoughts," 
who  "  had  seen  no  more  of  the  waking-day  than  a  girl  at 
a  boarding-school."  True  to  himself,  gentle,  tender,  with 
the  courage  of  a  lion,  "  frank  and  outspoken,  like  a  well- 
conditioned  boy,  well-bred  and  considerate  for  others,  be- 
cause he  was  totally  devoid  of  selfishness  and  vanity,",/ 
Shelley  seemed  to  this  unprejudiced  companion  of  his  last 
few  months  that  very  rare  product  for  which  Diogenes 
searched  in  vain — a  man. 

Their  first  meeting  must  be  told  in  Trelawny's  own 
words — words  no  less  certain  of  immortality  than  the 
fame  of  him  they  celebrate.  "The  Williamses  received 
me  in  their  earnest,  cordial  manner;  we  had  a  great  deal 
to  communicate  to  each  other,  and  were  in  loud  and  ani' 
mated  conversation,  when  I  was  rather  put  out  by  observ- 


1«4  SUELLET.  [CHAT. 

ing  in  the  passage  near  the  open  door,  opposite  to  where 
I  sat,  a  pair  of  glittering  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  mine ;  it 
was  too  dark  to  make  out  whom  they  belonged  to.  With 
the  acuteness  of  a  woman,  Mrs.  Williams's  eyes  followed 
the  direction  of  mine,  and  going  to  the  doorway  she  laugh- 
ingly said, '  Come  in,  Shelley,  it's  only  our  friend  Tre  just 
arrived.'  Swiftly  gliding  in,  blushing  like  a  girl,  a  tall, 
thin  stripling  held  out  both  his  hands ;  and  although  I 
could  hardly  believe,  as  I  looked  at  his  flushed,  feminine, 
and  artless  face,  that  it  could  be  the  poet,  I  returned  his 
warm  pressure.  After  the  ordinary  greetings  and  courte- 
sies he  sat  down  and  listened.  I  was  silent  from  aston- 
ishment :  was  it  possible  this  mild-looking,  beardless  boy, 
could  be  the  veritable  monster  at  war  with  all  the  world? 
—excommunicated  by  the  Fathers  of  the  Church,  deprived 
of  his  civil  rights  by  the  fiat  of  a  grim  Lord  Chancellor, 
discarded  by  every  member  of  his  family,  and  denounced 
by  the  rival  sages  of  our  literature  as  the  founder  of  a  Sa- 
tanic school  ?  I  could  not  believe  it ;  it  must  be  a  hoax. 
He  was  habited  like  a  boy,  in  a  black  jacket  and  trousers, 
which  he  seemed  to  have  outgrown,  or  his  tailor,  as  is  the 
custom,  had  most  shamefully  stinted  him  in  his  '  sizings.' 
Mrs.  Williams  saw  my  embarrassment,  and  to  relieve  me 
asked  Shelley  what  book  he  had  in  his  hand?  His  face 
brightened,  and  he  answered  briskly, — 

" '  Calderon's  Magico  Prodigioso  —  I  am  translating 
some  passages  in  it.' 

" '  Oh,  read  it  to  us.' 

"  Shoved  off  from  the  shore  of  commonplace  incidents 
that  could  not  interest  him,  and  fairly  launched  on  a 
theme  that  did,  he  instantly  became  oblivious  of  every- 
thing but  the  book  in  his  hand.  The  masterly  manner 
in  which  he  analysed  the  genius  of  the  author,  his  lucid 


VL]  RESIDENCE  AT  PISA.  16* 

interpretation  of  the  story,  and  the  ease  with  which  he 
translated  into  our  language  the  most  subtle  and  imagina- 
tive passages  of  the  Spanish  poet,  were  marvellous,  as  was 
his  command  of  the  two  languages.  After  this  touch  of 
his  quality  I  no  longer  doubted  his  identity ;  a  dead  si- 
lence ensued ;  looking  up,  I  asked, — 

"'Where  is  he?' 

"Mrs.  Williams  said, 'Who?  Shelley?  Oh,  he  comes 
and  goes  like  a  spirit,  no  one  knows  when  or  where.' " 

Two  little  incidents  which  happened  in  the  winter  of 
1821-2  deserve  to  be  recorded.  News  reached  the  Pisan 
circle  early  in  December  that  a  man  who  had  insulted  the 
Host  at  Lucca  was  sentenced  to  be  burned.  Shelley  pro- 
posed that  the  English  —  himself,  Byron,  Medwin,  and 
their  friend  Mr.  Taafe — should  immediately  arm  and  ride 
off  to  rescue  him.  The  scheme  took  Byron's  fancy ;  but 
they  agreed  to  try  less  Quixotic  measures  before  they 
had  recourse  to  force,  and  their  excitement  was  calmed  by 
hearing  that  the  man's  sentence  had  been  commuted  to 
the  galleys.  The  other  affair  brought  them  less  agreea- 
bly into  contact  with  the  Tuscan  police.  The  party  were 
riding  home  one  afternoon  in  March,  when  a  mounted 
dragoon  came  rushing  by,  breaking  their  ranks  and  nearly 
unhorsing  Mr.  Taafe.  Byron  and  Shelley  rode  after  him 
to  remonstrate ;  but  the  man  struck  Shelley  from  his  sad- 
dle with  a  sabre  blow.  The  English  then  pursued  him 
into  Pisa,  making  such  a  clatter  that  one  of  Byron's  ser- 
vants issued  with  a  pitchfork  from  the  Casa  Lanfranchi, 
and  wounded  the  fellow  somewhat  seriously,  under  the 
impression  that  it  was  necessary  to  defend  his  master. 
Shelley  called  the  whole  matter  "  a  trifling  piece  of  busi- 
ness ;"  but  it  was  strictly  investigated  by  the  authorities ; 
and  though  the  dragoon  was  found  to  have  been  in  the 


16«  SHELLEY.  [CHAT. 

wrong,  Byron  had  to  retire  for  a  season  to  Leghorn.  An- 
other consequence  was  the  exile  of  Count  Gamba  and  his 
father  from  Tuscany,  which  led  to  Byron's  final  departure 
from  Pisa. 

The  even  current  of  Shelley's  life  was  not  often  broken 
by  such  adventures.  Trelawny  gives  the  following  ac- 
count of  how  he  passed  his  days:  he  "was  up  at  six  or 
seven,  reading  Plato,  Sophocles,  or  Spinoza,  with  the  ac- 
companiment of  a  hunch  of  dry  bread;  then  he  joined 
Williams  in  a  sail  on  the  Arno,  in  a  flat-bottomed  skiff, 
book  in  hand,  and  from  thence  he  went  to  the  pine-forest, 
or  some  out-of-the-way  place.  When  the  birds  went  to 
roost  he  returned  home,  and  talked  and  read  until  mid- 
night." The  great  wood  of  stone  pines  on  the  Pisan  Ma- 
remma  was  his  favourite  study.  Trelawny  tells  us  how 
he  found  him  there  alone  one  day,  and  in  what  state  was 
the  MS.  of  that  prettiest  lyric,  Ariel,  to  Miranda  take.  "  It 
was  a  frightful  scrawl ;  words  smeared  out  with  his  finger, 
and  one  upon  the  other,  over  and  over  in  tiers,  and  all  run 
together  in  most  '  admired  disorder ;'  it  might  have  been 
taken  for  a  sketch  of  a  marsh  overgrown  with  bulrushes, 
and  the  blots  for  wild  ducks ;  such  a  dashed-off  daub  as 
self-conceited  artists  mistake  for  a  manifestation  of  genius. 
On  my  observing  this  to  him,  he  answered,  '  When  my 
brain  gets  heated  with  thought,  it  soon  boils,  and  throws 
off  images  and  words  faster  than  I  can  skim  them  off.  In 
the  morning,  when  cooled  down,  out  of  the  rude  sketch  as 
you  justly  call  it,  I  shall  attempt  a  drawing." 

A  daily  visit  to  Byron  diversified  existence.  Byron 
talked  more  sensibly  with  Shelley  than  with  his  common- 
place acquaintances ;  and  when  he  began  to  gossip,  Shel- 
ley retired  into  his  own  thoughts.  Then  they  would  go 
pistol-shooting,  Byron's  trembling  hand  contrasting  with 


vi.]  RESIDENCE  AT  PISA.  167 

his  friend's  firmness.  They  had  invented  a  "little  Ian- 
guage"  for  this  sport:  firing  was  called  tiring ;  hitting, 
colping ;  missing,  mancating,  <kc.  It  was  in  fact  a  kind 
of  pigeon  Italian.  Shelley  acquired  two  nick -names  in 
the  circle  of  his  Pisan  friends,  both  highly  descriptive. 
He  was  Ariel  and  the  Snake.  The  latter  suited  him  be- 
cause of  his  noiseless  gliding  movement,  bright  eyes,  and 
ethereal  diet.  It  was  first  given  to  him  by  Byron  during 
a  reading  of  Faust.  When  he  came  to  the  line  of  Meph- 
istopheles,  "  Wie  meine  Muhme,  die  beriihmte  Schlange," 
and  translated  it,  "  My  aunt,  the  renowned  Snake,"  Byron 
cried,  "  Then  you  are  her  nephew."  Shelley  by  no  means 
resented  the  epithet.  Indeed  he  alludes  to  it  in  his  let- 
ters, and  in  a  poem  already  referred  to  above. 

Soon  after  Trelawny's  arrival  the  party  turned  their 
thoughts  to  nautical  affairs.  Shelley  had  already  done  a 
good  deal  of  boating  with  Williams  on  the  Arno  and  the 
Serchio,  and  had  on  one  occasion  nearly  lost  his  life  by 
the  capsizing  of  their  tiny  craft.  They  now  determined 
to  build  a  larger  yacht  for  excursions  on  the  sea;  while 
Byron,  liking  the  project  of  a  summer  residence  upon  the 
Bay  of  Spezia,  made  up  his  mind  to  have  one  too.  Shel- 
ley's was  to  be  an  open  boat  carrying  sail,  Byron's  a  large 
decked  schooner.  The  construction  of  both  was  entrusted 
to  a  Genoese  builder,  under  the  direction  of  Trelawny's 
friend,  Captain  Roberts.  Such  was  the  birth  of  the  ill- 
fated  Don  Juan,  which  cost  the  lives  of  Shelley  and  Wil- 
liams, and  of  the  Bolivar,  which  carried  Byron  off  to 
Genoa  before  he  finally  set  sail  for  Greece.  Captain  Rob- 
erts was  allowed  to  have  his  own  way  about  the  latter; 
but  Shelley  and  Williams  had  set  their  hearts  upon  a  mod- 
el for  their  little  yacht,  which  did  not  suit  the  Captain's 
notions  of  sea-worthiness.  W7illiams  overruled  his  objec- 


168  .-  ilKLU-Y.  [CHAF.  VI. 

tions,  and  the  Don  Juan  was  built  according  to  his  cher- 
ished fancy.  "  When  it  was  finished,"  says  Trelawny,  "  it 
took  two  tons  of  iron  ballast  to  bring  her  down  to  her 
bearings,  and  then  she  was  very  crank  in  a  breeze,  though 
not  deficient  in  beam.  She  was  fast,  strongly  built,  and 
Torbay  rigged."  She  was  christened  by  Lord  Byron,  not 
wholly  with  Shelley's  approval;  and  one  young  English 
sailor,  Charles  Vivian,  in  addition  to  Williams  and  Shelley, 
formed  her  crew.  "  It  was  great  fun,"  says  Trelawny, "  to 
witness  Williams  teaching  the  poet  how  to  steer,  and  oth- 
er points  of  seamanship.  As  usual,  Shelley  had  a  book  in 
hand,  saying  he  could  read  and  steer  at  the  same  time,  as 
one  was  mental,  the  other  mechanical."  "  The  boy  was 
quick  and  handy,  and  used  to  boats.  Williams  was  not 
as  deficient  as  I  anticipated,  but  over-anxious,  and  wanted 
practice,  which  alone  makes  a  man  prompt  in  emergen- 
cy. Shelley  was  intent  on  catching  images  from  the  ever- 
changing  sea  and  sky ;  he  heeded  not  the  boat." 


CHAPTER  VH. 

LAST   DAYS. 

THE  advance  of  spring  made  the  climate  of  Pisa  too 
hot  for  comfort;  and  early  in  April  Trelawny  and  Wil- 
liams rode  off  to  find  a  suitable  lodging  for  themselves 
and  the  Shelleys  on  the  Gulf  of  Spezia.  They  pitched 
upon  a  house  called  the  Villa  Magni,  between  Lerici  and 
San  Terenzio,  which  "  looked  more  like  a  boat  or  bathing- 
house  than  a  place  to  live  in.  It  consisted  of  a  terrace 
or  ground-floor  unpaved,  and  used  for  storing  boat-gear 
and  fishing-tackle,  and  of  a  single  storey  over  it,  divided 
into  a  hall  or  saloon  and  four  small  rooms,  which  had  once 
been  white-washed;  there  was  one  chimney  for  cooking. 
This  place  we  thought  the  Shelleys  might  put  up  with 
for  the  summer.  The  only  good  thing  about  it  was  a 
verandah  facing  the  sea,  and  almost  over  it."  When  it 
came  to  be  inhabited,  the  central  hall  was  used  for  the 
living  and  eating  room  of  the  whole  party.  The  Shelleys 
occupied  two  rooms  facing  each  other;  the  Williamses 
had  one  of  the  remaining  chambers,  and  Trelawny  an- 
other. Access  to  these  smaller  apartments  could  only  be 
got  through  the  saloon ;  and  this  circumstance  once  gave 
rise  to  a  ludicrous  incident,  when  Shelley,  having  lost  his 
clothes  out  bathing,  had  to  cross,  in  puris  naturalibus,  not 
undetected,  though  covered  in  his  retreat  by  the  clever 
M  s* 


170  SHELLEY.  [CHAF. 

Italian  handmaiden,  through  a  luncheon  party  assembled 
in  the  dining-room.  The  horror  of  the  ladies  at  the  poet's 
unexpected  apparition  and  his  innocent  self-defence  are 
well  described  by  Trelawny.  Life  in  the  villa  was  of  the 
simplest  description.  To  get  food  was  no  easy  matter; 
and  the  style  of  the  furniture  may  be  guessed  by  Tre- 
lawny's  laconic  remark  that  the  sea  was  his  only  washing- 
basin. 

They  arrived  at  Villa  Magni  on  the  26th  of  April,  and 
began  a  course  of  life  which  was  not  interrupted  till  the 
final  catastrophe  of  July  8.  These  few  weeks  were  in 
many  respects  the  happiest  of  Shelley's  life.  We  seem  to 
discern  in  his  last  letter  of  importance,  recently  edited  by 
Mr.  Garnett,  that  he  was  now  conscious  of  having  reached 
a  platform  from  which  he  could  survey  his  past  achieve- 
ment, and  whence  he  would  probably  have  risen  to  a 
loftier  altitude,  by  a  calmer  and  more  equable  exercise  of 
powers  which  had  been  ripening  during  the  last  three 
years  of  life  in  Italy.  Meanwhile,  "  I  am  content,"  he 
writes,  "  if  the  heaven  above  me  is  calm  for  the  passing 
moment."  And  this  tranquillity  was  perfect,  with  none 
of  the  oppressive  sense  of  coming  danger,  which  distin- 
guishes the  calm  before  a  storm.  He  was  far  away  from 
the  distractions  of  the  world  he  hated,  in  a  scene  of  in- 
describable beauty,  among  a  population  little  removed 
from  the  state  of  savages,  who  enjoyed  the  primitive  pleas- 
ures of  a  race  at  one  with  nature,  and  toiled  with  hardy 
perseverance  on  the  element  he  loved  so  well  His  com- 
pany was  thoroughly  congenial  and  well  mixed.  He 
spent  his  days  in  excursions  on  the  water  with  Williams, 
or  in  solitary  musings  in  his  cranky  little  skiff,  floating 
upon  the  shallows  in  shore,  or  putting  out  to  sea  and  wait- 
ing for  the  landward  breeze  to  bring  him  home.  The 


TIL]  LAST  DAYS.  171 

evenings  were  passed  upon  the  terrace,  listening  to  Jane's 
guitar,  conversing  with  Trelawny,  or  reading  his  favourite 
poets  aloud  to  the  assembled  party. 

In  this  delightful  solitude,  this  round  of  simple  occu- 
pations, this  uninterrupted  communion  with  nature,  Shel- 
ley's enthusiasms  and  inspirations  revived  with  their  old 
strength.  He  began  a  poem,  which,  if  we  may  judge  of 
its  scale  by  the  fragment  we  possess,  would  have  been  one 
of  the  longest,  as  it  certainly  is  one  of  the  loftiest  of  his 
masterpieces.  The  Triumph  of  Life  is  composed  in  no 
strain  of  compliment  to  the  powers  of  this  world,  which 
quell  untameable  spirits,  and  enslave  the  noblest  by  the 
operation  of  blind  passions  and  inordinate  ambitions.  It 
is  rather  a  pageant  of  the  spirit  dragged  in  chains,  led  cap- 
tive to  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil.  The  sonorous 
march  and  sultry  splendour  of  the  terza  rima  stanzas, 
bearing  on  their  tide  of  song  those  multitudes  of  forms, 
processionally  grand,  yet  misty  with  the  dust  of  their  own 
tramplings,  and  half -shrouded  in  a  lurid  robe  of  light,  affect 
the  imagination  so  powerfully  that  we  are  fain  to  abandon 
criticism  and  acknowledge  only  the  daemonic  fascinations 
of  this  solemn  mystery.  Some  have  compared  the  Tri- 
umph of  Life  to  a  Panathenaic  pomp :  others  have  found 
in  it  a  reflex  of  the  burning  summer  heat,  and  blazing 
sea,  and  onward  undulations  of  interminable  waves,  which 
were  the  cradle  of  its  maker  as  he  wrote.  The  imagery 
of  Dante  plays  a  part,  and  Dante  has  controlled  the  struct- 
ure. The  genius  of  the  Revolution  passes  by :  Napoleon 
is  there,  and  Rousseau  serves  for  guide.  The  great  of  all 
ages  are  arraigned,  and  the  spirit  of  the  world  is  brought 
before  us,  while  its  heroes  pass,  unveil  their  faces  for  a 
moment,  and  are  swallowed  in  the  throng  that  has  no  end- 
ing. But  how  Shelley  meant  to  solve  the  problems  he 


172  SHELLEY.  [our. 

has  raised,  by  what  sublime  philosophy  he  purposed  to 
resolve  the  discords  of  this  revelation  more  soul-shatter- 
ing than  Daniel's  Mene,  we  cannot  even  guess.  The  poem, 
as  we  have  it,  breaks  abruptly  with  these  words :  "  Then 
what  is  Life  ?  I  cried  " — a  sentence  of  profoundest  import, 
when  we  remember  that  the  questioner  was  now  about  to 
seek  its  answer  in  the  halls  of  Death. 

To  separate  any  single  passage  from  a  poem  which  owes 
so  much  of  its  splendour  to  the  continuity  of  music  and 
the  succession  of  visionary  images,  does  it  cruel  wrong. 
Yet  this  must  be  attempted ;  for  Shelley  is  the  only  Eng- 
lish poet  who  has  successfully  handled  that  most  difficult 
of  metres,  terza  rima.  His  power  over  complicated  versi- 
fication cannot  be  appreciated  except  by  duly  noticing  the 
method  he  employed  in  treating  a  structure  alien,  perhaps, 
to  the  genius  of  our  literature,  and  even  in  Italian  used 
with  perfect  mastery  by  none  but  Dante.  To  select  the 
introduction  and  part  of  the  first  paragraph  will  inflict  less 
violence  upon  the  Triumph  of  Life  as  a  whole,  than  to 
detach  one  of  its  episodes. 

Swift  as  a  spirit  hastening  to  his  task 

Of  glory  and  of  good,  the  Sun  sprang  forth 

Rejoicing  in  his  splendour,  and  the  mask 

Of  darkness  fell  from  the  awakened  Earth. 
The  smokeless  altars  of  the  mountain  snows 
Flamed  above  crimson  clouds,  and  at  the  birth 

Of  light,  the  Ocean's  orison  arose, 

To  which  the  birds  tempered  their  matin  lay. 

All  flowers  in  field  or  forest  which  unclose 

Their  trembling  eyelids  to  the  kiss  of  day, 
Swinging  their  censers  in  the  element, 
With  orient  incense  lit  by  the  new  ray, 


m]  LAST  DAYS.  173 

Burned  slow  and  inconsumably,  and  sent 
Their  odorous  sighs  up  to  the  smiling  air; 
And,  in  succession  due,  did  continent, 

Isle,  ocean,  and  all  things  that  in  them  wear 
The  form  and  character  of  mortal  mould, 
Rise  as  the  Sun  their  father  rose,  to  bear 

Their  portion  of  the  toil,  which  he  of  old 
Took  as  his  own,  and  then  imposed  on  them. 
But  I,  whom  thoughts  which  must  remain  untold 

Had  kept  as  wakeful  as  the  stars  that  gem 
The  cone  of  night,  now  they  were  laid  asleep, 
Stretched  my  faint  limbs  beneath  the  hoary  stem 

Which  an  old  chestnut  flung  athwart  the  steep 

Of  a  green  Apennine.     Before  me  fled 

The  night ;  behind  me  rose  the  day ;  the  deep 

Was  at  my  feet,  and  Heaven  above  my  head,— 
When  a  strange  trance  over  my  fancy  grew 
Which  was  not  slumber,  for  the  shade  it  spread 

Was  so  transparent  that  the  scene  came  through 
As  clear  as,  when  a  veil  of  light  is  drawn 
O'er  evening  hills,  they  glimmer ;  and  I  knew 

That  I  had  felt  the  freshness  of  that  dawn 
Bathe  in  the  same  cold  dew  my  brow  and  hair, 
And  sate  as  thus  upon  that  slope  of  lawn 

Under  the  self-same  bough,  and  heard  as  there 
The  birds,  the  fountains,  and  the  ocean,  hold 
Sweet  talk  in  music  through  the  enamoured  air. 
And  then  a  vision  on  my  brain  was  rolled. 

Such  is  the  exordium  of  the  poem.  It  will  be  noticed 
that  at  this  point  one  series  of  the  interwoven  triplets  is 
concluded.  The  Triumph  of  Life  itself  begins  with  a  new 


174  SHELLEY.  jour. 

series  of  rhymes,  describing  the  vision  for  which  prepare- 
tion  has  been  made  in  the  preceding  prelude.  It  is  not 
without  perplexity  that  an  ear  unaccustomed  to  the  wind- 
ings of  the  terza  rima,  feels  its  way  among  them.  En- 
tangled and  impeded  by  the  labyrinthine  sounds,  the  reader 
might  be  compared  to  one  who,  swimming  in  his  dreams, 
is  carried  down  the  course  of  a  swift  river  clogged  with 
clinging  and  retarding  water-weeds.  Ho  moves ;  but  not 
without  labour :  yet  after  a  while  the  very  obstacles  add 
fascination  to  his  movement 

As  in  that  trance  of  wondrous  thought  I  lay, 
This  was  the  tenour  of  my  waking  dream  :— 
Methought  I  sate  beside  a  public  way 

Thick  strewn  with  summer  dust,  and  a  great  stream 
Of  people  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
Numerous  as  gnats  upon  the  evening  gleam, 

All  hastening  onward,  yet  none  seemed  to  know 
Whither  he  went,  or  whence  he  came,  or  why 
He  made  one  of  the  multitude,  and  so 

Was  borne  amid  the  crowd,  as  through  the  sky 
One  of  the  million  leaves  of  summer's  bier ; 
Old  age  and  youth,  manhood  and  infancy, 

Mixed  in  one  mighty  torrent  did  appear: 

Some  flying  from  the  thing  they  feared,  and  some 

Seeking  the  object  of  another's  fear ; 

And  others,  as  with  steps  towards  the  tomb, 
Pored  on  the  trodden  worms  that  crawled  beneath, 
And  others  mournfully  within  the  gloom 

Of  their  own  shadow  walked  and  called  it  death ; 
And  some  fled  from  it  as  it  were  a  ghost, 
Half  fainting  in  the  affliction  of  vain  breath. 


vn.]  LAST  DAYS.  175 

But  more,  with  motions  which  each  other  crossed, 
Pursued  or  spurned  the  shadows  the  clouds  threw, 
Or  birds  within  the  noon-day  ether  lost, 

Upon  that  path  where  flowers  never  grew — 
And  weary  with  Tain  toil  and  faint  for  thirst, 
Heard  not  the  fountains,  whose  melodious  dew 

Out  of  their  mossy  cells  for  ever  burst ; 

Nor  felt  the  breeze  which  from  the  forest  told 

Of  grassy  paths,  and  wood-lawn  interspersed, 

With  over-arching  elms,  and  caverns  cold, 

And  violet  banks  where  sweet  dreams  brood ; — but  they 

Pursued  their  serious  folly  as  of  old. 

Here  let  us  break  the  chain  of  rhymes  that  are  un- 
broken in  the  text,  to  notice  the  extraordinary  skill  with 
which  the  rhythm  has  been  woven  in  one  paragraph,  sug- 
gesting by  recurrences  of  sound  the  passing  of  a  multi- 
tude, which  is  presented  at  the  same  time  to  the  eye  of 
fancy  by  accumulated  images.  The  next  eleven  triplets 
introduce  the  presiding  genius  of  the  pageant.  Students 
of  Petrarch's  Trionfi  will  not  fail  to  note  what  Shelley 
owes  to  that  poet,  and  how  he  has  transmuted  the  definite 
imagery  of  mediaeval  symbolism  into  something  meta- 
physical and  mystic. 

And  as  I  gazed,  methought  that  in  the  way 
The  throng  grew  wilder,  as  the  woods  of  June 
When  the  south  wind  shakes  the  extinguished  day ; 

And  a  cold  glare,  intenser  than  the  noon 
But  icy  cold,  obscured  with  blinding  light 
The  sun,  as  he  the  stars.  Like  the  young  moon — 

When  on  the  sunlit  limits  of  the  night 
Her  white  shell  trembles  amid  crimson  air, 
And  whilst  the  sleeping  tempest  gathers  might, — 
38 


17«  SHELLEY.  J.CBAP. 

Doth,  as  the  herald  of  its  coming,  bear 

The  ghost  of  its  dead  mother,  whose  dim  form 

Bends  in  dark  ether  from  her  infant's  chair; 

So  came  a  chariot  on  the  silent  storm 

Of  its  own  rushing  splendour,  and  a  Shape 

So  sate  within,  as  one  whom  years  deform, 

Beneath  a  dusky  hood  and  double  cape, 
Crouching  within  the  shadow  of  a  tomb. 
And  o'er  what  seemed  the  head  a  cloud-like  crape 

Was  bent,  a  dun  and  faint  ethereal  gloom 
Tempering  the  light.    Upon  the  chariot  beam 
A  Janus-visaged  Shadow  did  assume 

The  guidance  of  that  wonder-winged  team ; 
The  shapes  which  drew  it  in  thick  lightnings 
Were  lost : — I  heard  alone  on  the  air's  soft  stream 

The  music  of  their  ever-moving  wings. 

All  the  four  faces  of  that  charioteer 

Had  their  eyes  banded ;  little  profit  brings 

Speed  in  the  van  and  blindness  in  the  rear, 
Nor  then  avail  the  beams  that  quench  the  sun, 
Or  that  with  banded  eyes  could  pierce  the  sphere 

Of  all  that  is,  has  been,  or  will  be  done. 
So  ill  was  the  car  guided — but  it  past 
With  solemn  speed  majestically  on. 

The  intense  stirring  of  his  imagination  implied  by  this 
supreme  poetic  effort,  the  solitude  of  Villa  Magni,  and  the 
elemental  fervour  of  Italian  heat  to  which  he  recklessly 
exposed  himself,  contributed  to  make  Shelley  more  than 
usually  nervous.  His  somnambulism  returned,  and  he  saw 
visions.  On  one  occasion  he  thought  that  the  dead  Alle- 
gra  rose  from  the  sea,  and  clapped  her  hands,  and  laughed, 
and  beckoned  to  him.  On  another  he  roused  the  whole 


vn.]  LAST  DAYS.  177 

house  at  night  by  his  screams,  and  remained  terror-frozen 
in  the  trance  produced  by  an  appalling  vision.  This 
mood  he  communicated,  in  some  measure,  to  his  friends. 
One  of  them  saw  what  she  afterwards  believed  to  have 
been  his  phantom,  and  another  dreamed  that  he  was  dead. 
They  talked  much  of  death,  and  it  is  noticeble  that  the 
last  words  written  to  him  by  Jane  were  these : — "  Are  you 
going  to  join  your  friend  Plato  ?" 

The  Leigh  Hunts  at  last  arrived  in  Genoa,  whence  they 
again  sailed  for  Leghorn.  Shelley  heard  the  news  upon 
the  20th  of  June.  He  immediately  prepared  to  join 
them ;  and  on  the  1st  of  July  set  off  with  Williams  in 
the  Don  Juan  for  Leghorn,  where  he  rushed  into  the  arms 
of  his  old  friend.  Leigh  Hunt,  in  his  autobiography, 
writes,  "  I  will  not  dwell  upon  the  moment."  From  Leg- 
horn he  drove  with  the  Hunts  to  Pisa,  and  established 
them  in  the  ground-floor  of  Byron's  Palazzo  Lanfranchi, 
as  comfortably  as  was  consistent  with  his  lordship's  varia- 
ble moods.  The  negotiations  which  had  preceded  Hunt's 
visit  to  Italy,  raised  forebodings  in  Shelley's  mind  as  to 
the  reception  he  would  meet  from  Byron ;  nor  were  these 
destined  to  be  unfulfilled.  Trelawny  tells  us  how  irksome 
the  poet  found  it  to  have  "  a  man  with  a  sick  wife,  and 
seven  disorderly  children,"  established  in  his  palace.  To 
Mrs.  Hunt  he  was  positively  brutal ;  nor  could  he  tolerate 
her  self-complacent  husband,  who,  while  he  had  voyaged 
far  and  wide  in  literature,  had  never  wholly  cast  the 
slough  of  Cockneyism.  Hunt  was  himself  hardly  power- 
ful enough  to  understand  the  true  magnitude  of  Shelley, 
th»ugh  he  loved  him ;  and  the  tender  solicitude  of  the 
great,  unselfish  Shelley,  for  the  smaller,  harmlessly  con- 
ceited Hunt,  is  pathetic.  They  spent  a  pleasant  day  or 
two  together,  Shelley  showing  the  Campo  Santo  and  other 


178  SHELLEY.  [.MAP. 

sights  of  Pisa  to  his  English  friend.  Hunt  thought  him 
somewhat  less  hopeful  than  he  used  to  be,  but  improved 
in  health  and  strength  and  spirits.  One  little  touch  re- 
lating to  their  last  conversation,  deserves  to  be  recorded : 
-—"He  assented  warmly  to  an  opinion  I  expressed  in  the 
cathedral  at  Pisa,  while  the  organ  was  playing,  that  a  truly 
divine  religion  might  yet  be  established,  if  charity  were 
really  made  the  principle  of  it,  instead  of  faith." 

On  the  night  following  that  day  of  rest,  Shelley  took  a 
postchaise  for  Leghorn  ;  and  early  in  the  afternoon  of  the 
next  day  he  set  sail,  with  Williams,  on  his  return  voyage 
to  Lerici.  The  sailor-boy,  Charles  Vivian,  was  their  only 
companion.  Trelawny,  who  was  detained  on  board  the 
Bolivar,  in  the  Leghorn  harbour,  watched  them  start.  The 
weather  for  some  time  had  been  unusually  hot  and  dry. 
"  Processions  of  priests  and  religiosi  have  been  for  several 
days  past  praying  for  rain ;"  so  runs  the  last  entry  in 
Williams's  diary ;  "  but  the  gods  are  either  angry  or  nature 
too  powerful."  Trelawny's  Genoese  mate  observed,  as  the 
Don  Juan  stood  out  to  sea,  that  they  ought  to  have  start- 
ed at  three  a.  m.  instead  of  twelve  hours  later;  adding 
"the  devil  is  brewing  mischief."  Then  a  sea-fog  with- 
drew the  Don  Juan  from  their  sight.  It  was  an  oppres- 
sively sultry  afternoon.  Trelawny  went  down  into  his 
cabin,  and  slept ;  but  was  soon  roused  by  the  noise  of  the 
ships'  crews  in  the  harbour  making  all  ready  for  a  gale. 
In  a  short  time  the  tempest  was  upon  them,  with  wind, 
rain,  and  thunder.  It  did  not  last  more  than  twenty  min- 
utes; and  at  its  end  Trelawny  looked  out  anxiously  for 
Shelley's  boat.  She  was  nowhere  to  be  seen,  and  nothing 
could  be  heard  of  her.  In  fact,  though  Trelawny  could 
not  then  be  absolutely  sure  of  the  catastrophe,  she  had 
sunk,  struck  in  all  probability  by  the  prow  of  a  felucca, 


TH.]  LAST  DAYS.  179 

but  whether  by  accident  or  with  the  intention  of  running 
her  down,  is  still  uncertain. 

On  the  morning  of  the  third  day  after  the  storm,  Tre- 
lawny  rode  to  Pisa,  and  communicated  his  fears  to  Hunt. 
"  1  then  went  upstairs  to  Byron.  When  I  told  him,  his 
lip  quivered,  and  his  voice  faltered  as  he  questioned  me." 
Couriers  were  despatched  to  search  the  sea-coast,  and  to 
bring  the  Bolivar  from  Leghorn.  Trelawny  rode  in  per- 
son toward  Via  Reggio,  and  there  found  a  punt,  a  water- 
keg,  and  some  bottles,  which  had  been  in  Shelley's  boat. 
A  week  passed,  Trelawny  patrolling  the  shore  with  the 
coast-guardsmen,  but  hearing  of  no  new  discovery,  until 
at  last  two  bodies  were  cast  upon  the  sand.  One  found 
near  Via  Reggio,  on  the  18th  of  July,  was  Shelley's.  It 
had  his  jacket,  "  with  the  volume  of  ^Eschylus  in  one 
pocket,  and  Keats's  poems  in  the  other,  doubled  back,  as 
if  the  reader,  in  the  act  of  reading,  had  hastily  thrust  it 
away."  The  other,  found  near  the  tower  of  Migliarino, 
at  about  four  miles'  distance,  was  that  of  Williams.  The 
sailor-boy,  Charles  Vivian,  though  cast  up  on  the  same  day, 
the  1 8th  of  July,  near  Massa,  was  not  heard  of  by  Trelaw- 
ny till  the  29th. 

Nothing  now  remained  but  to  tell  the  whole  dreadful 
truth  to  the  two  widowed  women,  who  had  spent  the  last 
days  in  an  agony  of  alternate  despair  and  hope  at  Villa 
Magni.  This  duty  Trelawny  discharged  faithfully  and 
firmly.  "The  next  day  I  prevailed  on  them,"  he  says, 
"to  return  with  me  to  Pisa.  The  misery  of  that  night 
and  the  journey  of  the  next  day,  and  of  many  days  and 
nights  that  followed,  I  can  neither  describe  nor  forget." 
It  was  decided  that  Shelley  should  be  buried  at  Rome, 
near  his  friend  Keats  and  his  son  William,  and  that  Wil- 
liams's  remains  should  be  taken  to  England.  But  first 


180  SHELLEY.  [CHAP. 

the  bodies  had  to  be  burned ;  and  for  permission  to  do 
this  Trelawny,  who  all  through  had  taken  the  lead,  ap- 
plied to  the  English  Embassy  at  Florence.  After  some 
difficulty  it  was  granted. 

What  remains  to  be  said  concerning  the  cremation  of 
Shelley's  body  on  the  6th  of  August,  roust  be  told  in 
Trelawny's  own  words.  Williams,  it  may  be  stated,  had 
been  burned  on  the  preceding  day. 

"Three  white  wands  had  been  stuck  in  the  sand  to 
mark  the  poet's  grave,  but  as  they  were  at  some  distance 
from  each  other,  we  had  to  cut  a  trench  thirty  yards  in 
length,  in  the  line  of  the  sticks,  to  ascertain  the  exact  spot, 
and  it  was  nearly  an  hour  before  we  came  upon  the  grave. 

"In  the  meantime  Byron  and  Leigh  Eunt  arrived  in 
the  carriage,  attended  by  soldiers,  and  the  Health  Officer, 
as  before.  The  lonely  and  grand  scenery  that  surrounded 
us,  so  exactly  harmonized  with  Shelley's  genius,  that  I 
could  imagine  his  spirit  soaring  over  us.  The  sea,  with 
the  islands  of  Gorgona,  Capraja,  and  Elba,  was  before  us ; 
old  battlemented  watch-towers  stretched  along  the  coast, 
backed  by  the  marble-crested  Apennines  glistening  in  the 
sun,  picturesque  from  their  diversified  outlines,  and  not  a 
human  dwelling  was  in  sight. 

"  As  I  thought  of  the  delight  Shelley  felt  in  such  scenes 
of  loneliness  and  grandeur  whilst  living,  I  felt  we  were  no 
better  than  a  herd  of  wolves  or  a  pack  of  wild  dogs,  in 
tearing  out  his  battered  and  naked  body  from  the  pure 
yellow  sand  that  lay  so  lightly  over  it,  to  drag  him  back  to 
the  light  of  day ;  but  the  dead  have  no  voice,  nor  had  I 
power  to  check  the  sacrilege — the  work  went  on  silently 
in  the  deep  and  unresisting  sand,  not  a  word  was  spoken, 
for  the  Italians  have  a  touch  of  sentiment,  and  their  feel- 
ings are  easily  excited  into  sympathy.  Byron  was  silent 


TIL]  LAST  DAYS.  181 

and  thoughtful.  We  were  startled  and  drawn  together 
by  a  dull,  hollow  sound  that  followed  the  blow  of  a  mat- 
tock ;  the  iron  had  struck  a  skull,  and  the  body  was  soon 

uncovered After  the  fire  was  well  kindled  we  re 

peated  the  ceremony  of  the  previous  day ;  and  more  wine 
was  poured  over  Shelley's  dead  body  than  he  had  con- 
sumed during  his  life.  This  with  the  oil  and  salt  made 
the  yellow  flames  glisten  and  quiver.  The  heat  from  the 
sun  and  fire  was  so  intense  that  the  atmosphere  was  trem- 
ulous and  wavy The  fire  was  so  fierce  as  to  pro- 
duce a  white  heat  on  the  iron,  and  to  reduce  its  contents 
to  grey  ashes.  The  only  portions  that  were  not  consumed 
were  some  fragments  of  bones,  the  jaw,  and  the  skull; 
but  what  surprised  us  all  was  that  the  heart  remained  en- 
tire. In  snatching  this  relic  from  the  fiery  furnace,  my 
hand  was  severely  burnt ;  and  had  any  one  seen  me  do  the 
act,  I  should  have  been  put  into  quarantine." 

Shelley's  heart  was  given  to  Hunt,  who  subsequently, 
not  without  reluctance  and  unseemly  dispute,  resigned  it 
to  Mrs.  Shelley.  It  is  now  at  Boscombe.  His  ashes  were 
carried  by  Trelawny  to  Rome  and  buried  in  the  Protes- 
tant cemetery,  so  touchingly  described  by  him  in  his  let- 
ter to  Peacock,  and  afterwards  so  sublimely  in  Adonais. 
The  epitaph,  composed  by  Hunt,  ran  thus :  "  Percy  Bysshe 
Shelley,  Cor  Cordium,  Natus  iv.  Aug.  MDCCXCII.  Obiit 
vm  Jul.  MDCCCXXII."  To  the  Latin  words  Trelawny, 
faithfullest  and  most  devoted  of  friends,  added  three  lines 
from  Ariel's  song,  much  loved  in  life  by  Shelley : 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 

"  And  so,"  writes  Lady  Shelley,  "  the  sea  and  the  earth 


182  SHELLEY.  [CHIP.  m. 

closed  over  one  who  was  great  as  a  poet,  and  still  greater 
as  a  philanthropist ;  and  of  whom  it  may  be  said,  that  his 
wild  spiritual  character  seems  to  have  prepared  him  for 
being  thus  snatched  from  life  under  circumstances  of  min- 
gled terror  and  beauty,  while  his  powers  were  yet  in  their 
spring  freshness,  and  age  had  not  come  to  render  the 
ethereal  body  decrepit,  or  to  wither  the  heart  which  could 
not  be  consumed  by  fire," 


CHAPTER 

EPILOGUE. 

AFTER  some  deliberation  I  decided  to  give  this  little 
work  on  Shelley  the  narrative  rather  than  the  essay  form, 
impelled  thereto  by  one  commanding  reason.  Shelley's 
life  and  his  poetry  are  indissolubly  connected.  He  acted 
what  he  thought  and  felt,  with  a  directness  rare  among 
Ms  brethren  of  the  poet's  craft ;  while  his  verse,  with  the 
exception  of  The  Cenci,  expressed  little  but  the  animating 
thoughts  and  aspirations  of  his  life.  That  life,  moreover, 
was  "  a  miracle  of  thirty  years,"  so  crowded  with  striking 
incident  and  varied  experience  that,  as  he  said  himself,  he 
had  already  lived  longer  than  his  father,  and  ought  to  be 
reckoned  with  the  men  of  ninety.  Through  all  vicissi- 
tudes he  preserved  his  youth  inviolate,  and  died,  like  one 
whom  the  gods  love,  or  like  a  hero  of  Hellenic  story, 
young,  despite  grey  hairs  and  suffering.  His  life  has, 
therefore,  to  be  told,  in  order  that  his  life-work  may  be 
rightly  valued :  for,  great  as  that  was,  he,  the  man,  was 
somehow  greater ;  and  noble  as  it  truly  is,  the  memory 
of  himself  is  nobler. 

To  the  world  he  presented  the  rare  spectacle  of  a  man 
passionate  for  truth,  and  unreservedly  obedient  to  the  right 
as  he  discerned  it.  The  anomaly  which  made  his  practical 


184  SHELLEV.  [CHAP. 

career  a  failure,  lay  just  here.  The  right  he  followed  was 
too  often  the  antithesis  of  ordinary  morality  :  in  his  desire 
to  cast  away  the  false  and  grasp  the  true,  he  overshot  the 
mark  of  prudence.  The  blending  in  him  of  a  pure  and 
earnest  purpose  with  moral  and  social  theories  that  could 
not  but  have  proved  pernicious  to  mankind  at  large,  pro- 
duced at  times  an  almost  grotesque  mixture  in  his  actions 
no  less  than  in  his  verse.  We  cannot,  therefore,  wonder 
that  society,  while  he  lived,  felt  the  necessity  of  asserting 
itself  against  him.  But  now  that  he  has  passed  into  the 
company  of  the  great  dead,  and  time  has  softened  down 
the  asperities  of  popular  judgment,  we  are  able  to  learn 
the  real  lesson  of  his  life  and  writings.  That  is  not  to  be 
sought  in  any  of  his  doctrines,  but  rather  in  his  fearless 
bearing,  his  resolute  loyalty  to  an  unselfish  and  in  the  sim- 
plest sense  benevolent  ideal.  It  is  this  which  constitutes 
his  supreme  importance  for  us  English  at  the  present  time. 
Ours  is  an  age  in  which  ideals  are  rare,  and  we  belong  to 
a  race  in  which  men  who  follow  them  so  single-heartedly 
are,not  common. 

As  a  poet,  Shelley  contributed  a  new  quality  to  English 
literature — a  quality  of  ideality,  freedom,  and  spiritual  au- 
dacity, which  severe  critics  of  other  nations  think  we  lack. 
Jyron's  daring  is  in  a  different  region:  his  elemental 
worldliness  and  pungent  satire  do  not  liberate  our  ener- 
gies, or  cheer  us  with  new  hopes  and  splendid  vistas. 
Wordsworth,  the  very  antithesis  to  Shelley  in  his  reverent 
accord  with  institutions,  suits  our  meditative  mood,  sus- 
tains us  with  a  sound  philosophy,  and  braces  us  by  healthy 
contact  with  the  Nature  he  so  dearly  loved.  But  in 
Wordsworth  there  is  none  of  Shelley's  magnetism.  What 
remains  of  permanent  value  in  Coleridge's  poetry  —  such 
work  as  Chriatabel,  the  Ancient  Mariner,  or  Kubla  Khan 


vin.]  EPILOGUE.  185 

—us  a  product  of  pure  artistic  fancy,  tempered  by  the  au- 
thor's mysticism.  Keats,  true  and  sacred  poet  as  he  was, 
loved  Nature  with  a  somewhat  sensuous  devotion.  She 
was  for  him  a  mistress  rather  than  a  Diotima;  nor  did 
he  share  the  prophetic  fire  which  burns  in  Shelley's  verse, 
quite  apart  from  the  direct  enunciation  of  his  favourite 
tenets.  In  none  of  Shelley's  greatest  contemporaries  was 
the  lyrical  faculty  so  paramount ;  and  whether  we  consid- 
er his  minor  songs,  his  odes,  or  his  more  complicated  cho- 
ral dravias,  we  acknowledge  that  he  was  the  loftiest  and 
the  most  spontaneous  singer  of  our  language.  In  range 
of  power  he  was  also  conspicuous  above  the  rest.  Not 
only  did  he  write  the  best  lyrics,  but  the  best  tragedy,  the 
best  translations,  and  the  best  familiar  poems  of  his  centu- 
ry. As  a  satirist  and  humourist,  I  cannot  place  him  so 
high  as  some  of  his  admirers  do ;  and  the  purely  polemi- 
cal portions  of  his  poems,  those  in  which  he  puts  forth  his 
antagonism  to  tyrants  and  religions  and  custom  in  all  its 
myriad  forms,  seem  to  me  to  degenerate  at  intervals  into 
poor  rhetoric. 

While  his  genius  was  so  varied  and  its  flight  so  unap- 
proached  in  swiftness,  it  would  be  vain  to  deny  that  Shel- 
ley, as  an  artist,  had  faults  from  which  the  men  with  whom 
I  have  compared  him  were  more  free.     Th£_jneefc-promiA 
nent  of  these  are  haste,  incoherence,  verbal  carelessness,  r/' 
incompleteness,  a  want  of  narrative  force,  and  a  weak  hold  1 
on  objective  realities.     Even  his  warmest  admirers,  if  they/ 
are  sincere  critics,  will  concede  that  his  verse,  taken  alto- 
gether, is  marked  by  inequality.     In  his  eager  self-aban- 
donment to  inspiration,  he  produced  much  that  is  unsatis 
fying  simply  because  it  is  not  ripe.     There  was  no  defect 
of  power  in  him,  but  a  defect  of  patience ;  and  the  final 
word  to  be  pronounced  in  estimating  the  larger  bulk  of 
N       9 


186  SHELLEY. 

his  poetry  is  the  word  immature.  Not  only  was  the  poot 
young ;  but  the  fruit  of  his  young  mind  had  been  pluck* 
ed  before  it  had  been  duly  mellowed  by  reflection.  Again, 
he  did  not  care  enough  for  common  things  to  present 
them  with  artistic  fulness.  He  was  intolerant  of  detail, 
and  thus  failed  to  model  with  the  roundness  that  we  find 
in  Goethe's  work.  He  flew  at  the  grand,  the  spacious,  the 
sublime ;  and  did  not  always  succeed  in  realizing  for  his 
readers  what  he  had  imagined.  A  certain  want  of  faith 
in  his  own  powers,  fostered  by  the  extraordinary  dis- 
couragement under  which  he  had  to  write,  prevented  him 
from  finishing  what  he  began,  or  from  giving  that  ulti- 
mate form  of  perfection  to  his  longer  works  which  we  ad- 
mire in  shorter  pieces  like  the  Ode  to  the  West  Wind. 
When  a  poem  was  ready,  he  had  it  hastily  printed,  and 
passed  on  to  fresh  creative  efforts.  If  anything  occurred 
to  interrupt  his  energy,  he  flung  the  sketch  aside.  Some 
of  these  defects,  if  we  may  use  this  word  at  all  to  indicate 
our  sense  that  Shelley  might  by  care  have  been  made  equal 
to  his  highest  self,  were  in  a  great  measure  the  correlative 
of  his  chief  quality — the  ideality,  of  which  I  have  already 
spoken.  He  composed  with  all  his  faculties,  mental,  emo- 
tional, and  physical,  at  the  utmost  strain,  at  a  white  heat 
of  intense  fervour,  striving  to  attain  one  object,  the  truest 
and  most  passionate  investiture  for  the  thoughts  which 
had  inflamed  his  ever -quick  imagination.  The  result  is 

,  that  his  finest  work  has  more  the  stamp  of  something  nat- 
ural and  elemental — the  wind,  the  sea,  the  depth  of  air — 

I  than  of  a  mere  artistic  product.  Plato  would  have  said : 
/\  the  Muses  filled  this  man  with  sacred  madness,  and,  when 

N!  he  wrote,  he  was  no  longer  in  his  own  control.  There 
was,  moreover,  ever-present  in  his  nature  an  effort,  an  as- 

.   piration  after  a  better  than  the  best  this  world  can  show, 


viii.  ]  EPILOGUE.  187 

which  prompted  him  to  blend  the  choicest  products  of  his 
thought  and  fancy  with  the  fairest  images  borrowed  from 
the  earth  on  which  he  lived.  He  never  willingly  com- 
posed except  under  the  impulse  to  body  forth  a  vision  of 
';he  love  and  light  and  life  which  was  the  spirit  of  the 
power  he  worshipped.  This  persistent  upward  striving, 
this  earnestness,  this  passionate  intensity,  this  piety  of  soul 
and  purity  of  inspiration,  give  a  quite  unique  spirituality 
to  his  poems.  But  it  cannot  be  expected  that  the  colder 
perfections  of  Academic  art  should  be  always  found  in 
them.  They  have  something  of  the  waywardness  and 
negligence  of  nature,  something  of  the  asymmetreia  we  ad- 
mire in  the  earlier  creations  of  Greek  architecture.  That 
Shelley,  acute  critic  and  profound  student  as  he  was,  could 
conform  himself  to  rule  and  show  himself  an  artist  in  the 
stricter  sense,  is,  however,  abundantly  proved  by  The  Cen- 
ci  and  by  Adonais.  The  reason  why  he  did  not  always 
observe  this  method  will  be  understood  by  those  who  have 
studied  his  Defence  of  Poetry,  and  learned  to  sympathize 
with  his  impassioned  theory  of  art. 

Working  on  this  small  scale,  it  is  difficult  to  do  barest 
justice  to  Shelley's  life  or  poetry.  The  materials  for  the 
former  are  almost  overwhelmingly  copious  and  strangely 
discordant.  Those  who  ought  to  meet  in  love  over  his 
grave,  have  spent  their  time  in  quarrelling  about  him,  and 
baffling  the  most  eager  seeker  for  the  truth.1  Through 
the  turbid  atmosphere  of  their  recriminations  it  is  impos- 
sible to  discern  the  whole  personality  of  the  man.  By 
careful  comparison  and  refined  manipulation  of  the  bio- 
graphical treasures  at  our  disposal,  a  fair  portrait  of  Shel- 

1  See  Lady  Shelley  v.  Hogg ;  Trelawny  v.  the  Shelley  family ;  Pea- 
cock v.  Lady  Shelley ;  Garnett  v.  Peacock ;  Garnett  v.  Trelawny ; 
McCarthy  v.  Hogg,  &c.,  &c. 


188  SHELLEY.  [CHAT. 

ley  might  still  be  set  before  the  reader  with  the  accuracy 
of  a  finished  picture.  That  labour  of  exquisite  art  and  of 
devoted  love  still  remains  to  be  accomplished,  though  in 
the  meantime  Mr.  W.  M.  Rossetti's  Memoir  is  a  most  valu- 
able instalment.  Shelley  in  his  lifetime  bound  those  who 
knew  him  with  a  chain  of  loyal  affection,  impressing  ob- 
servers so  essentially  different  as  Hogg,  Byron,  Peacock, 
Leigh  Hunt,  Trelawny,  Medwin,  Williams,  with  the  con- 
viction that  he  was  the  gentlest,  purest,  bravest,  and  most 
spiritual  being  they  had  ever  met.  The  same  conviction 
is  forced  upon  his  biographer.  During  his  four  last  years 
this  most  loveable  of  men  was  becoming  gradually  riper, 
wiser,  truer  to  his  highest  instincts.  The  imperfections  of 
his  youth  were  being  rapidly  absorbed.  His  self-knowl- 
edge was  expanding,  his  character  mellowing,  and  his  gen- 
ius growing  daily  stronger.  Without  losing  the  fire  that 
burned  in  him,  he  had  been  lessoned  by  experience  into 
tempering  its  fervour;  and  when  he  reached  the -age  of 
twenty-nine,  he  stood  upon  the  height  of  his  most  glori- 
ous achievement,  ready  to  unfold  his  wings  for  a  yet  snb- 
lirner  flight.  At  that  moment,  when  life  at  last  seemed 
about  to  offer  him  rest,  unimpeded  activity,  and  happiness, 
death  robbed  the  world  of  his  maturity.  Posterity  has 
but  the  product  of  his  cruder  years,  the  assurance  that  he 
had  already  outlived  them  into  something  nobler,  and  the 
tragedy  of  his  untimely  end. 

If  a  final  word  were  needed  to  utter  the  unutterable 
sense  of  waste  excited  in  us  by  Shelley's  premature  ab- 
Borption  into  the  mystery  of  the  unknown,  we  might  find 
it  in  the  last  lines  of  his  own  Alastor : — 

Art  and  eloquence, 

And  all  the  shows  o'  the  world,  are  frail  and  vain 
To  weep  a  loss  that  turns  their  light  tolshade. 


mi.]  EPILOGUE.  189 

It  is  a  wo«  "  too  deep  for  tears,"  when  all 
Is  reft  at  once,  when  some  surpassing  spirit, 
Whose  light  adorned  the  world  around  it,  leaves 
Those  who  remain  behind  nor  sobs  nor  groans, 
The  passionate  tumult  of  a  clinging  hope ; 
But  pale  despair  and  cold  tranquillity, 
Nature's  vast  frame,  the  web  of  human  things, 
;    Birth  and  the  grave,  that  are  not  as  they  were. 


THE    END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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